


An unconventional woman

by dreforall



Series: An unconventional story [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Regency, Asexuality, Don't Judge Me, F/M, I Don't Even Know, LGBTQI+ characters, Lots of it, Multi, Music, No White Walkers, No prophecy here, Period-Typical Ableism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Regency, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Tourney at Harrenhal, Vaguely inspired by Frederick Chopin and George Sand, a girl and her horse, and also there's romance and stuff, but there's war, except it's a ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-07-09 14:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreforall/pseuds/dreforall
Summary: Lady Lyanna is an unconventional woman: she dresses like a man, rides magnificently, and hates her intended’s, Robert Baratheon’s, guts, even though he gifted her her most precious possession: her horse.Rhaegar Targaryen is Prince Regent of Westeros, but if it was up to him, he would be a pianist, exchanging his musical talents for coin.They meet at Harrenhal.





	1. An unconventional woman

**Author's Note:**

> Look, don't ask, I don't know either. I don't own the characters, I only play with them!  
> I hope y'all enjoy this small bit of crazy. :D

"By the gods," Ser Jaime Lannister muttered, under breath, but loud enough that those in their party could hear it. "Is she truly a woman?"

It wasn't quite like the young man to say such a thing, but then, in the presence of his sister, the young Lannister heir was altogether a different creature. A shame, truly, for he was otherwise a rather fine, if arrogant and vain, young lad.

Said sister, however, was another matter altogether. Swallowing a sigh, Rhaegar prepared himself for the gossip that would surely follow; and as promised, the young lady Lannister's reply was a wider-eyed, if delicate, titter, soon echoed by those of the ladies gathered around her.

"It does explain why Lord Stark never leaves his estate," she giggled, mean as can be. "I would not survive the shame of having such a daughter," her fan flapped open extravagantly, flapping to hide the smile she surely had. Rhaegar did not deign a look in her direction. He was quite familiar with the young lady's behaviour, enough to predict it without needing to look.

Truth be told, the Prince Regent thought Lord Stark was correct in keeping to his estate and his lordship, if it saved him from having to listen to endless chatter such as this. The girls around Lady Cersei, of course, all giggled as well, as mindless as brightly-coloured birds from the Summer Isles. Sycophants, the lot of them, but what else to expect among such esteemed company?

Harrenhal was an old castle with an even older, sadder story, but the Whents were nothing if not steadfast, and luxurious when they so desired. And tonight, they did so desire: their grandiose ballroom was alight, the many hearths and lamps burning, the finest and brightest minds in Westeros all present for the event of the year, that of the youngest Miss Whent's sixteenth birthday. Even his kingly father had demanded to attend (uninvited, but such is the nature of kings), though, by this hour, he'd already retired to his chambers -- leaving his son, the Prince Regent, free to roam and mingle as he pleased. Which, to be fair, he did _not_ , but did so anyway, as was his duty.

Thus his current predicament, caught between the Lannister twins with no recourse but endure. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy their company -- in truth, Ser Jaime could be tremendously entertaining -- but wherever the twins were, other courtiers followed, and _those_ vapid gossips were not nearly as stimulating as they believed themselves to be.

Oh well.

Across from them, the woman in question paid no mind, oblivious to the words said about her. In fact, it was as if they did not exist at all. She stood in a gaggle of her own brothers, all three of them united for once, and, presumably, other northern nobles who'd decided to endeavour the journey and attend tonight. He could see why Ser Jaime said what he said; and yet, he could not bring himself to agree.

It was true that the Lady Lyanna was... unconventional. For one, she wore breeches, though this was a very much formal occasion, and a cravat, much like a gentleman would, like her brothers; in fact, her finery was no less than theirs, her boots polished and gleaming as befit a, well, a young gentleman of her station. She had broad shoulders, for a woman, though not unseemingly so, and a slight figure. Ser Jaime wasn't completely wrong: were it not for the long, thick braid that graced her back, as far down as her buttocks, one could take her for a young man, even if in passing. Among the women in their gowns and glittering jewels, she cut as strange a figure as a raven among doves. He seemed to recall the petition from her to wear masculine attire; the reason given was an avid interest in horseback riding.

Against his better self, Rhaegar could not help but think it fascinating, in a way.

One of their youngest hanger-ons smiled, trying in vain to copy her idol's look of disdain towards the strange woman among them, quite breaking Rhaegar's line of thought.

"My brother said he saw her earlier today," she paused. It was not half as dramatic as the young lass expected it to be. "At the stables. Said she was brushing her own horse and whistling, like a commoner."

If he was even a little less polite, he'd have rolled his eyes. Honestly. Even their vapid company made no comment; the poor, unfortunate girl blushed and proceeded to pretend she never said a word.

Well, no immediate comment. Lady Cersei's catlike smile was soon back. She truly stood in stark contrast with the Lady Lyanna, in a crimson red gown and adorned with gold and emeralds. They accented her green eyes quite fetchingly, he thought. Her own hair was twisted in some elaborate fashion Rhaegar did not even pretend to understand.

"They do say she has an unnatural affinity for the beasts. Poor Lord Baratheon is so smitten with her, and yet she spurns his advances... returns all his gifts, she does, except one. That horse."

He could well imagine Lord Baratheon's frustration in getting his tokens of affection sent back. He could imagine such a woman doing so. He could _not_ imagine the very same Lord Baratheon, a man overly fond of women if rumours were true, and Rhaegar was sure they were, so smitten with a woman such as Lyanna Stark. But then, he was not exactly familiar with the ways of the heart, much less a heart such as Robert Baratheon's. If anything, Rhaegar Targaryen was well-known for his asceticism and distance from worldly pleasures. A scholar through and through, he was a fine statesman, or so people said, and he had enough charisma and charm as befit his station, but he had never been one for the revels and extravagances typical of his sex and station.

He'd been busy with running a kingdom behind his father's back for far too long to mind such things.

"Your Grace," another timid, but far more pleasant voice, asked from his side, breaking his musings. A newcomer to their midst: young Lysa Tully, redheaded as her sister, though far mousier and shyer. "Will you not play for us tonight?"

He should say no. He was the Prince Regent, untouchable by all but the highest nobility, and should not so readily perform like a common entertainer. But the young girl's gentle question, presented so guilelessly, stirred that wish inside him again; the wish to play, the wish for music. His one and only real indulgence, the thing that got him through dark times and darker thoughts.

His music.

"Of course, my lady, if you so wish," he resisted the urge to smile at the young girl, lest he be misinterpreted and make her a target for gossip. It broke his heart, sometimes, this distance, that he could not even be kind to her, without invoking a storm of gossip and greedy, avid eyes. Still, his long stride brought him to the pianoforte, as inevitable as a moth to flame, and the whole of the ballroom seemed to silence, including the musicians that provided them with entertainment on Lord Whent's coin. He was not sure whether it did silence, or if he simply ceased to hear them.

Yes, he would play.

In music, he was truly free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering: Frederick Chopin found George Sand (real name Amantine Aurore Lucille Dupin -- George Sand was her pen name as an author) rather ugly and allegedly said the exact words I've given Jaime here ("Is she truly a woman?"). She's most known as George Sand, but people she knew actually called her Aurore.
> 
> Back then (1800s) women could apply for permission to wear male clothing with justifications such as occupation, recreation or health reasons. But some, like Sand, wore them just 'cause with no permission or justification. Sand's argument was that they were more comfortable, cheaper and it was easier for her to mingle with Parisian society. Wearing male clothing helped her get to places where women could not go.
> 
> In here, my Lyanna used her well-known interest in horses as an excuse, but went well beyond just wearing them for riding, for the same reasons as Sand: for comfort and to move around (mostly) unmolested. Since her daddy is the Warden of the North, and it's Westeros besides, not our world, we'll assume police turned a blind eye to her infraction and just thought her an eccentric.


	2. Nocturne

The silence was deafening, if such a thing were possible.

"What --?" she began, but her brother, Ned, stopped her in time, pointing to where the Prince Regent moved swiftly to the grand pianoforte the Whents held in their ballroom. It was well-known the Prince was a musician, and rumour said a quite skilled one at that, though it was quite rare that he would perform in public. Apparently, it was unbecoming that such a man would perform before people like a common traveling artist; Lyanna found it utterly ridiculous, though she understood the reasoning quite well.

She found a lot of things society took for granted ridiculous, Lyanna did.

Still, she knew her place, and she knew that she was in for quite the unique sight, so she shut her mouth and turned to face where the Prince sat at the piano, the silver hair coming undone from its black ribbon, falling in wisps around his face. She could admit he cut a quite striking figure. If she was less who she was, she might be as breathless as the vapid little ladies that flocked around him like ducklings. She was honest with herself enough to admit, though, that yes, he was a beautiful man. The patrician look of the Targaryens lived ever so strong in him, and in the red and black of his house, he looked almost preternaturally pale, though, the fire gave his skin a golden warmth that only enhanced the noble angles of his figure.

In music, however, he was _arresting_. Against her better judgment, she could not take her eyes from him. He was focused, wholly so, so much like her when she rode Stormhawk, as if the world ceased to exist. His fingers flew over the keys as if they had lives of their own. She'd seen many musicians before, playing a great many instruments, some of which did not even exist this south.

The Prince Regent, however, was _bewitching_ in how well he played. And the music...

It had to be his own composition. Nobody could interpret half as well someone else's thoughts and emotions. No, it had to be his, and by the gods, it was... it was...

_Sad. It was sad._

So very much so, it ached. It positively hurt, like something that ought to be private laid bare to the public. She wasn't even sure the Prince realized what he was doing, so absorbed he was in his task. Sorrow, and pain, and wistful hopefulness, all flowing from him like it was inevitable; it made her heart, that timid thing most people thought was stone and ice, ache. It hurt, because she understood; it was how she felt when she thought of her mother, of Lyarra Stark bleeding out in childbed, taking her babe with her. Lyanna had been six or seven at the time, but she knew enough to remember, and to miss her. So very much.

It was only the enthusiastic applause that broke her trance, and she blinked back the tears she hadn't noticed staining her cheeks.

"By the gods, Lyanna, are you _crying?_ "

She was. She was, and it was humiliating enough without her little brother announcing it to the world like that, in that incredulous tone. Her own body reacted on its own volition, dumping whatever remained of her wine on her brother in a wonderful display of immaturity.

As if she was not enough of an spectacle without engaging the histrionics.

Lyanna Stark knew who she was. She knew she was _unconventional_ , and she knew _unconventional_ was another word for shameful among certain circles. She could imagine what the likes of Lady Cersei Lannister and her gaggle of simpering doves spoke about her. While she gave them no mind, and she truly didn't, she was not so foolish as to not know they were staring and gossiping and tittering behind their fans at the strange specimen who dared to show her face in polite society.

She was also aware that many, because she did not act and dress as a woman of her station, believed she was, in fact, defective in some fashion. That she had none of those sensibilities associated with her sex, such as a desire for love, or children, or an appreciation of sentiment when sentiment was due. It was true she was no weeping damsel, and her heart was not faint in the least; but she did have a heart in that chest of hers, one that many disregarded or believed frozen over; she did feel; she was no more insensate than her brothers, and were they not also flesh and blood? Did they not feel great emotion and passion? Why, then, would others believe her incapable of such? Was she less of a woman because of her attire and her tastes alone?

Most of time, it was no concern of hers; and she loved herself enough to never wish to change her nature, or betray it; and the words of others fell into deaf, listless ears. Other times, such as now, it smarted, this incredulity, this disregard for her very own self. Damned be the Prince and his art!

Before she came to her senses, she was outside in the great courtyard. It was a balmy night, as most nights in the south, at least compared to her homeland of the North. Still, the air was fresh, and it cooled her heated skin, and whisked the tears away from her cheeks. She knew what would make her better, truly better. His company always brought balance to her life. And yet, he was far, at the stables, and her absence would surely raise eyebrows. The last thing she needed were more rumours about her person, and the liaisons many believed her to have -- and that, yet, she never did.

She would give it some time, and recompose herself, before she went back in -- back to the people, the lights, and the memory of a haunting song that even now, still echoed in her mind.

* * *

The music:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I imagine Rhaegar plays is [this](https://youtu.be/_hyAOYMUVDs), because we're keeping the Frederick Chopin theme. Chopin was well-known for being very passionate about his music, and while he never named them, not really, people came up with nicknames according to the moods and emotions they felt about it. I know that in canon Rhaegar's described as a skilled harpist that played for the smallfolk of King's Landing, but in this world he's a more modern gentleman so piano it is.


	3. Fantaisie

The grove was quiet, only the softest murmur of nature breaking the silence. He could hear it, though, the rushing of the scent hounds. They'd soon be upon them.

"Your Grace," she said, not even gifting him with a look. Instead, they focused on the animal between them.

The fox was, quite clearly, terrified, and well it should be, considering the certain death that approached it. It cowered in the underbrush, ears flat back and teeth peeled, though it knew there was no real way out of its current predicament. Between it and salvation -- the den -- was Lyanna Stark, straight-backed on her saddle, quiet as the grave, impeccable in her tweeds. They stared at each other across the grass, the woman and the fox, the Prince Regent quite the afterthought. It didn't bother him, not when this particular tableaux played itself before him.

Fox and woman stared at each other, and then, so quick he might've missed it were he not so utterly focused on the scene, the horse leapt forward -- the clever animal, of course, startled into action, dashed straight into safety, going to ground and effectively ending the hunt that had taken them most of the morning.

"It was good as caught," he said rather unnecessarily. It wasn't often that Rhaegar felt the need to break a silence such as this, but it seemed warranted now.

She snorted, rather unladylike, and brought her horse this much closer to his. For the first since last night's ball, the Prince Regent took a good look at the woman who had been the talk of the day.

For all the fantastical tales about the woman, she was quite ordinary. If not for her unconventional attire and, so they said, equally unconventional comportment, Lady Lyanna might've been quite plain. She was of median height, with the long face typical of the Starks and grey-eyed as her sire; certainly not a great beauty, though there was something in her smile and the way she tilted her head appraisingly that gave her a rather unusual... charm.

Charm seemed an insufficient word, but then, usual conventions seemed to quite elude Lady Lyanna's person.

"That fox doesn't deserve to die," she said.

"And why is that?"

She shrugged. Rhaegar rather got the impression that she had looked at him, analyzed him in the brief moments he dedicated to observing her, and found him wanting. It was a rather... new experience for the Prince Regent. Not to be criticized; he knew well that he was not nearly as popular figure as he had been when he was merely the Crown Prince; many were... unsatisfied when he pushed his father aside. Likely due to fact they could no longer exploit the old man's madness to their own benefit. However, it was unheard of that people would do so to his face, or show their disregard (or rather, utter lack of interest in his person) so openly.

Truly, he was even less used to being so quickly disregarded by a lady. It would be dishonest to say he did not feel the dig at his masculine pride. While Rhaegar was not a particularly vain man, he was not blind to the fact women found him comely; yes, his riches and royal blood may be the main reason why they flocked to him so readily, eager to grasp at his attention, but he was not oblivious to his own natural gifts, either. The Targaryens were well-known for their otherworldly beauty, and that had been the case for centuries.

Perhaps he truly _was_ the greatest of fools to find that disregard particularly charming in her, but then; many people already thought him a fool with his head in the clouds anyway.

He could not help but want to provoke a reaction, for good or for ill.

"Does the thought of killing an animal offend your sensibilities, my lady?"

"Your Grace," she looked -- just looked at him, unfathomable and dark. "We hunt wolves in the North. I killed my first wolf as a lass of sixteen, months after my presentation in society,” she paused, watching him, certainly fishing for his reaction; his disgust, he supposed. There was none; perhaps there should be. “I still have its pelt, which I skinned and prepared myself.”

”That wee thing,” she gestured to the den, pointing at it with the whip. “That wee thing needs more time to grow and sire strong kits.”

"I did not take you for a naturalist, my lady," he said, and it was true: for all her infamy, they knew precious little about the lady in question.

"My lord," she replied, so quiet he could scarce hear it. The look in her eyes... there was something, there, a melancholy quite at odds to the proud woman before him. "Not many ever bother to know the truth of me."

He was saved from needing to answer by the timely arrival of the huntsman, the hounds and the rest of their party, where they ascertained their quarry had gone to ground. Lacking in hounds to dive into the den, it ended the hunt, and soon they were on their way back to the castle, a mess of chattering voices and the sound of hooves.

Against his better judgment, he kept the Lady Lyanna in his sights, riding as close to her as he dared, though there was no further conversation between them and she paid him no mind at all. Still, the proximity lent itself to his favour, as he could see first hand the tension of her shoulders and the panicked look in her eyes, quite unlike the woman who spoke so casually of hunting and skinning wolves, as one rider detached himself from their party and came straight at her.

He would know that loud, booming voice anywhere.

”Lyanna!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun (?) historical facts: fox-hunting was a popular sport in 19th century England, so popular they brought foxes from mainland Europe to hunt. While women did foxhunt back then, it wasn't common, as they rode sidesaddle and the saddles used weren't particularly safe at the time (they improved since, with the leaping horn providing more stability for jumps and racing across fields). Their attire was similar to that of the men, but they wore an apron across their fronts while riding sidesaddle. Lyanna, of course, has no fucks to give and rides astride without extra fabric to bog her down. It actually took considerable skill to ride sidesaddle in a hunt (probably more than riding astride, really), but this version of Lyanna has nothing to prove to anyone and rides however she damn pleases and feels more comfortable. :)
> 
> Also, in a real foxhunt they probably wouldn't be ahead of the hounds, since the goal is more to watch them hunt than do any of the hunting themselves, but shhhhh let's just roll with it k? K.


	4. Impromptu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn't obvious, a) English isn't my first language, b) there is no beta, revision or really any plan whatsoever to this story, sooooo yea :D Thanks for reading! Concrit is always welcome :)

"Lyanna!"

Gods, must he be so... _himself_?

Her teeth ground involuntarily at the familiarity of his address, a familiarity that was as unwarranted as it was intentional. It took force to relax her jaw and paint the vacuous, meaningless smile upon her face instead. She's learned that the best way to deal with Lord Baratheon was to indulge him while doing her best to fly away from the moment and elsewhere. The man, of course, was oblivious to her disinterest; lords always are; and pushed his own horse near to hers, a great beast that towered over most of the hunters present, including her own, much like the man himself did. Stormhawk, bless him, sidestepped delicately and away, no doubt feeling the distress rising from his rider's skin like a miasma. She pets his neck in thanks, discreetly. Her horse always knew how to deal with unwanted persons who inflicted themselves on her company.

Which was more than could be said of the Lord of Storm's End.

"I see you enjoyed my present," said the lord. "For once. I am glad."

"So am I, my lord," she said, politely, and worse, sincerely, because it was true. Her horse was decidedly the best thing to come out of the whole mess. "It was a fine gift, and I thank you for it."

She could sense the Prince Regent's eyes on her, no doubt observing her interaction with Lord Baratheon who, come to think of it, was her cousin -- an odd thought, when both men could not be more unlike each other. It made her cheeks pink, quite against her will, in shame at being seen in such a situation. Which made everything worse, for she was sure Lord Baratheon would take her blush for something else altogether, such as pleasure at his presence. Which could be no further from the truth.

Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands after his father Steffon's demise at sea, was a maiden's dream, as long as said maiden did not bother to know him. He held an impressive height, broad shoulders matched with strength and military prowess. His dark hair contrasted most fetchingly with his bright blue eyes and his clear skin had the healthy colour of a man who spent his life outdoors in vigorous exercise. He was handsome of face and figure, a male ideal if there was one. He was charming and charismatic, gregarious and popular. He was fond of wine, women and gambling, not unlike most noblemen of their time, her own brother Brandon included. Men loved Lord Robert for his vibrant personality and generosity, and women for his rakish smile and irresistible charm.

He was also, by his own word, violently in love with her.

Truth be told, in different circumstances, Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark might have become fast friends. She would have enjoyed his company very much, as the gregarious, easy-smiling man he was, were it not for the fact he was committed to conquering her heart (and more besides).

It mystified Lyanna why _she_ had to be the recipient of such persistent affections. She was not a great beauty such as Ashara Dayne, Catelyn Tully or Cersei Lannister; the latter even had a claim comparable to hers, and her riches greater; Lord Baratheon was rich, he had no need for the income she would bring as the third child of Lord Rickard Stark, and he was noble besides, so there was no need for the weight her maiden name carried. Lyanna Stark knew she was considered plain by many and infamous by all, due to her predilections for male pursuits over the feminine arts so favoured in her class.

Why then did he have to fixate on _her_ , of all women?

"My lady," he said, bowing over her hand, which she reached out for him to kiss. "You, my lady, deserve far more. You _will_ have far more, I vow, once we are wedded."

It would be pointless to argue that she was not, at all, wedding him, at least not of her own free will; so she did not. She was well aware her father approved of the match, likely believed a lord like Robert to be an adequate minder for his wayward daughter, to not mention the bride price she would bring. No matter that the man was by all accounts a profligate and a rake. It was no secret that, while Robert was the one who held the title of Lord Paramount, it was Stannis who truly ruled as Lord, while his brother fucked, drank and gambled his way to the grave.

"My lord," she tried, even though she knew it to be pointless. "I have no wish for finery."

He laughed, loud and booming. He did not believe her, of course; attributed her words to northern modesty. For all his womanizing and professions of eternal devotion, Lord Robert knew little and less about the true hearts of women in general and Lyanna Stark's in special. Rather, it seemed to elude him completely that all women were not the same.

"Except this one, eh? Quite a fine beast indeed," he said, and to her utter mortification leaned even closer to slap her horse's neck. Her beloved, of course, already on edge due to Lyanna's mounting discomfort, startled away, and it was all she could do to keep the horse in check before he kicked Lord Robert's own, poor, innocent horse in retaliation. The man himself, of course, merely smiled that charming smile of his, narrowing his eyes. "Feisty, eh?" he chortled, thankfully in a more discreet manner. "Just like his owner. That ol' bastard, Lord Tyrell, guaranteed me he was the finest product in their stables."

"He is, my lord. I am very thankful."

It still amazed her that he had found Stormhawk to gift her with, though it took him well over a year to figure it out. Ever since his first declaration of eternal regard for her, Lord Robert had taken to send her tokens of his devotion once a month. They arrived as regularly as her monthly courses, and she had, with time, learned to dread their scheduled day of arrival. Jewelry, mostly, or other feminine paraphernalia such as hats, gloves and even, once, a gown so scandalous she was brilliantly red in the face for a hour after seeing it. She had, of course, been conscientious enough to return his generous offerings to his brother, Lord Stannis; they grew quite a rapport over that, as Stannis appreciated her returning the extravagant gifts her suitor sent her, and she appreciated his commiseration over Lord Robert's misguided attempts to buy her affection.

Then, one month, Benjen ran into her solar and demanded she come outside to see Robert's new gift. She would take the memories of that particular afternoon to her grave.

Lyanna hoped Lord Robert never found out he had, by chance or providence, brought her other half, her _best_ half, to her. He'd be truly insufferable if he knew how deeply she cared for her horse.

She'd written to Lord Stannis, warning him of what his brother had done and that, this time, she would not return his gift; but could he please intercede and stop his brother from sending her increasingly expensive and embarrassing tokens?

The gifts stopped after that.

The lord in question, however, did not cease his pursuits, exchanging the expensive baubles for rather impassioned letters, which she replied to the best of her abilities, out of politeness, even if they made her want to die inside from the shame.

"Good, good, I hear my lady enjoys riding," gods, but that leer. Did that _actually_ work? Or was merely Lyanna's already stained reputation that led him to be so crass? She thought it might be the latter; she _hoped_ it was the latter. If it was not, it would render the whole of her sex even lower in her eyes, and Lyanna refused to believe women in general were that foolish. Then again, buffoonery aside, Lord Robert _was_ charming and he _was_ attractive, and wealthy besides; she supposed those of her gender could be forgiven their unending tolerance, those things considered. It was not their fault they were not, like Lyanna, insensible to his considerable assets.

Gods be good, she wanted away. She was ready to do so, unwanted attention and politeness be damned; but the world still had small mercies left for her, and they came through Lord Whent's courtyard. With a sigh of relief she was entirely too well-bred to show, Lyanna made her excuses to her so-called suitor and made her way to the stables, slipping through the crowd and to the stables, away from her pursuer before he could find a way to entrap her further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fairly flew out but it also took a kind of different tone in general? Oh well. No historical notes in this one. :p


	5. Étude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lyanna and Rhaegar talk about love and horses and have A Moment.

Rhaegar Targaryen should be ashamed of himself.

He should be ashamed of veritably stalking her like this. He should be ashamed of his pathetic need to listen in on her conversation with Lord Baratheon. He’d been surrounded by lords the moment they rejoined the hunting party, and thus, unable to join her and her suitor. It would be improper, regardless; they were good as betrothed; he would just be an interloper.

Unfortunately for the Prince Regent, his scholarly pursuits gave him an unending thirst for knowledge and the unraveling of mysteries. His family sigil may be a dragon, but Queen Rhaella often said Rhaegar’s personal sigil should be a cat, for he had the curiosity of seven cats in that brain of his. As a child, he spent quite a long time trying to draw said sigil, until his father found out and punished him for daring to betray the Targaryen legacy or something or another, he couldn't quite remember; Aerys always found reasons to punish him, even back then. He never drew heraldic cats again, nonetheless.

It was his excuse for, after handing his mount to his page, stalking back into the stables and where the Northern party kept their steeds. He half remembered a girl’s comment on the Lady Stark caring for her horse herself, and sure enough, he found her in the stall with her stallion.

The lady had divested herself from her riding jacket, and hat; her whip lay discarded to the side. Her carefully pinned bun had come undone as well, wisps of hair flying around her face and away from her usual braid. He wasn't sure she even noticed his presence there, and he took advantage of her distraction to watch her work.

And work she did, absorbed single-mindedly into her task. The fingers of her left hand rested against the horse's heart, while the right brushed his neck, back and shoulder quite vigorously. In the half-light of the stables, he could see the horse seemed to appreciate the attention, his nose resting firmly against her back and lipping at her shirt, the way horses sometimes did when they liked someone. She hummed as she worked, sometimes speaking in a language he couldn't quite grasp, but thought it was Old Tongue; some said it was still spoken in the North, having become more common after the fall of the Wall, and it would be logical for a Stark to know it. It seemed to help calm the horse, for he could tell from the droop of his head and the gentle swish of his tail that the animal was quite relaxed indeed.

So was the owner: he'd never noticed the stiffness in Lady Stark's stance until he saw her like this, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up, humming and brushing and carding her fingers through the fur of her mount. From time to time, the stallion would shift or nose her arm this or that way, directing her attention to some spot or another he wanted scratched, and she would giggle and obey.

From his position, it looked as if woman and horse were locked in an embrace, a quiet conversation spoken in a language of body and touch; as intimate as it was sweet, and innocent.

He supposed they were; it was endearing to watch.

"Your Grace, it's quite rude to spy on others," she said and though he could not see her face, turned away from him as she was, he could imagine the ironic smile he was sure graced her lips.

"I am sorry, my lady. I did not mean to interrupt."

"You didn't," he saw her shrug, and completely ignore him again, focusing on the task at hand. He watched as she bent to scrub at the steed's legs, lifting each hoof in turn, the horse placid and perfectly at peace with her attentions. She worked quickly, and efficiently; but there was something curiously tender in the way she moved around the horse, a hand always resting against his back, thigh, or croup. The horse, too, watched her every move, but it wasn't out of wariness. "I do wonder, my lord, if I have done something to attract Your Grace's attention?"

 _Bold of you to presume_ , he thought, but truth be told, was she wrong? He'd practically followed her through the entire hunt, making sure to be close enough to observe; then there was that moment in the grove; and now he'd stalked her to her den, much as they had done with the fox. What could he possibly say to that? There was no answer that would not sound either insulting or suggest things that were not true. True, he was curious; likely more than he should; she was a mystery, one he would not even know about was it not for the incessant courtly gossip since her arrival at Harrenhal. The mysterious Lady Stark, who dresses and walks like a man but hums sweet words to her horse in the privacy of the stables, while rejecting a gently-bred suitor who seems impassionately in love with her. But to confess such a thing would be to imply she was some sort of aberration; a curious little bug to be studied under a spyglass. She was a lady; a great lady at that. Eccentric and unconventional or not, it was unbecoming of him to treat _any_ of his subjects like such, no matter how unfortunately true it might be.

So, he settled for a half-truth instead.

"You ride magnificently, my lady. It is not common among the fairer sex, at least, not in our class."

She chuckled. He thought she did not believe him, but still, her eyes seemed to spark with the turn of subject -- it was not hard to devise she would rather talk equestrianism than the reason behind his unusual habits. Rhaegar suspected it was not a pleasant subject for her, either.

"I do, Your Grace, I can say that with no modesty. Best rider in the North, some say," she grinned, aglow with pride; it was sweet. "And Stormhawk here is _magnificent_ as well, I dare say. A rider is only as good as her horse," she smiled then, not at him, but at her Stormhawk, as she said. Her hands began undoing the braids he'd been adorned with, as befit the hunt. Drawing closer to the stall, he could see she had clever, stubby fingers; her nails looked dirty, no doubt due to her work grooming, and even a little calloused. Most noble women (and several non-noble ones, as well) would not be caught dead with such unkempt hands.

"Is he?"

Rhaegar supposed he was, though he knew little and less of horseflesh to say either way. The animal certainly _looked_ pretty: it was dark all over, a rich, deep brown, but his mane and tail were a beautiful honey colour. Brushed and cleaned as he was, the horse's coat shone brightly, the dark brown fading to a smattering of dapples and a polished bronze. It certainly looked strong as well, and athletic, much like Rhaegar's own horses, and there was a refined cut to his face, which bore a white stripe. He could tell, too, the Tyrell brand on the stallion's thigh, which, he supposed, meant quality as well. Definitely a handsome horse, but that was as far as he could go assessing the beast's overall quality.

"He is," she laughed, bright and merry, as the horse in question tugged on her shirt again, clearly unhappy with sharing her attention. Her shirt would be hopelessly stained, but she didn't seem to care. "The finest Tyrell rose in the whole garden, are you not, my sweet? Lord Baratheon gifted him to me," she kissed the horse's neck, scratching her fingers through his mane. "My better half, are you not, my pet? Ah, but even if he was not, I would love him just the same; even if he was one of those nags used to ferry cabbages around, I believe he would still earn my affection, would you not, my heart? We were meant to be together, you and I. I can only thank Lord Baratheon for facilitating us finding each other, though I believe that was never his intention."

The horse snorted, seemingly in agreement, and she kissed him again, this time on the cheek.

Rhaegar Targaryen was the Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to a lineage that spread over a thousand years. He'd taken his father's throne at the age of eighteen, when it became clear the old man was not fit to rule, and was successful in his duty. But in the privacy of his mind, in the dark, shadowy place where he hid sometimes when the pressure grew too much, in his heart of hearts; he would have to admit he felt a stab of envy.

Of a horse.

A _beast_.

An irrational animal that, he waged, was the recipient of more true devotion and love from a honest woman than the Silver Prince himself would ever know. There would always be his title, his name, his birth, standing between _him_ and any real affection he might earn. Especially not a love like that, unconditional and pure: there was nothing sordid or perverse in the way she spoke and made much of her pet, nothing of the _unnatural_ , either, though he was sure her detractors would waste no time in implying otherwise.

"I confess, my lady, I have never --"

"Seen such devotion between a woman and her ride?" she interrupted and he bristled, even though she was correct. "I do not doubt, my lord. Not many understand this, not really," she shrugged. It disturbed him a little to acknowledge the gesture had become familiar to him already. "They cannot, for they have not felt it. Though, Your Grace, I believe you can; I doubt many understand your devotion to your art, either; the difference being, of course, that the object of my devotion is alive, and capable of reciprocating."

 _Ah_.

"I... yes, I..."

She stared at him them, eyes narrowed, head tilted, and he was oddly reminded that her family sigil was a wolf. A direwolf, at that; something rare and strange and powerful from the Far North. There was something in those gray eyes of hers, something deep and dark that he found he could not quite look away from, that simultaneously drew him in and made him want to draw back, lest something unforgivable happen. Something he was not quite sure _what_.

Then, as quickly as it started, it was gone; she turned her back to him, abruptly, collecting her things with the efficiency of a soldier at war; as he was left blinking as someone who'd just woken from a dream. So lost he was, he almost missed her next words, though, in the end, it made no difference.

"I am sorry, Your Grace, I should go back; I have been away for far too long, and soon my brothers will be after me. I hope Your Grace will play for us tonight again," and just as swiftly, she strode out of the stables, leaving him behind as if he was no more than one of the stable hands. As if she hadn't --

_What in the Seven Hells just happened?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Egads, this one was long and pretty bad but it is what it is what can we do  
> I did say this was a story of a girl and her horse didn't I
> 
> Unsolicited historical fact: Aurore Dupin, a.k.a. George Sand, was six years Chopin's elder when they first met. She was married and divorced by then and had two children, Maurice and Solange. It was she who pursued him: she found him intriguing and he... didn't, not at first, but she managed to wear him down against his better judgment, so to speak. She was a very popular novelist as well, the most popular novelist in Britain (remember, she was French); she was more popular than Victor Hugo in her time, and near universally praised for her skillful writing.
> 
> Here, as in canon, it's Rhaegar who's older. The rest of the details of his situation we'll find out later ;)


	6. Fantaisie II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lyanna finds herself a girl crush. Kind of.

Lyanna Stark was not used to being around women.

As the men retired to Lord Whent’s study, presumably to talk business (or at least that’s the explanation Brandon gave her), she found herself in a parlor room with the remaining ladies -- all of whom were utter strangers to her, and might as well be another species altogether. Or worse; Lyanna was quite good with animals, after all. It was people she did not quite know how to deal with.

She’d had her share of governesses, of course, ever since the good Lady Stark died in childbed. Most were reliable women from the north; one them, a Miss Payne, even came from the south, herself, and very well recommended; she’d been a good woman, and perhaps the closest Lyanna ever had to a good, female influence.

Still, none of her governesses were noble themselves, and knew little and less of what a good lady should be like, or the paraphernalia that made them _noble_ and _fashionable_. She’d studied with her brothers’ tutors, statecraft and politics and things, she was told, not fit for women of good breeding to think about. It was no wonder she knew not how to related to the brightly coloured, powdered birds she found herself with. Among them, she might as well be a dog among cats. And, she suspected, they would not wish to talk to her, either, lest they catch her “unconventionality” and reputation by association. She could feel their stares.

So she stood by the window; looking outside as the rain poured down and wishing, not for the first time, that she had stayed north, where she belonged. In Winterfell, she could roam as much as she desired, and none would say a word about her manner of dress or speech or the things she enjoyed.

But her sire wished her to follow her brothers, and, if she was honest, she wished to know more of the world as well. She’d never truly left Winterfell, other than quick forays to their neighbours and roaming around the northern villages near to her father’s estate; she did wish to know the world.

 _Not this world, though,_ she sighed internally.

Absorbed as she was in her melancholy thoughts, she almost startled at the voice suddenly by her side -- blinking the cobwebs away from her mind to focus on the interloper. Who was, of course, a woman.

Not any woman however.

Ashara Dayne’s reputation was so great it even reached the dreary halls of Winterfell. The sister of Arthur Dayne, a personal friend of the Prince Regent and distinguished soldier in his own right, she was said to be a great friend to Princess Elia Martell, in spite of her lower nobility, and a great beauty on her own right -- certainly much more than the Princess herself.

Lyanna was not quite sure what to expect from such a woman, but she imagined someone like the other great beauty of their time, Cersei Lannister: perfumed, bedecked in jewel and fine things, pale as a pearl, and bright as the sun; poisonous as an adder as well, perhaps, or vain and vacuous as the mindless beauties her brother chased around.

Well, Lyanna Stark was wrong.

The Dornish woman did wear a fine dress in pale blue, and she wore an amethyst in a choker around her neck; but there ended the affectations. There was no reason for more. She did not need anything. Her skin was a pale honey-brown, smooth and beautiful in a way that made Lyanna self-conscious of her own skinned knees and elbows. The dark of her hair was rich and deep as well. Ringlets framed a face as perfect as that of a Lysian statue, her lips of such a sweet, blush pink Lyanna wasn’t even sure was possible without some cosmetic aid -- but she didn’t wear any. Her neck was long and elegant; her hands, holding the fan she carried almost casually, had long, elegant fingers; she wondered whether Lady Ashara played the piano. She likely did. It was something highborn ladies knew how to do -- another of Lyanna’s many failures in that regard.

But it was the look in her large, expressive violet eyes that drew Lyanna in. The woman was beautiful, yes, but there was something warm in those eyes of her. And that was what made it worse: she could have easily dismissed a cold, vapid, or indifferent beauty.

Ashara Dayne was neither cold nor indifferent. She did not have a look of vapid brainlessness in those eyes of hers, either. Quite the opposite, in fact.

It was unfair, really, how a woman could be so beautiful, and still seem _nice_.

“Lady Ashara,” she felt the urge to curtsy, but in her breeches, it would be ridiculous. She bowed instead, at the neck, as her brother Brandon would. Lyanna Stark outranked Ashara Dayne by several degrees of nobility -- the Daynes were a relatively minor house of Dorne, whereas Lyanna was daughter of the Warden of the North. Nonetheless, there was an unspoken, if clear, hierarchy between them, it was Lyanna who was the obvious inferior.

“Would you join me for a turn around the room?”

The answer went unspoken; Lyanna offered her arm, as Brandon would do, and they went. It was one of those things society ladies did that she did not quite understand, but went with it regardless.

“Lady Lyanna,” she said, her voice husky and surprisingly deep for a woman. “I have long wished to meet you. Your brother spoke so well of you, yesterday at the ball! Alas, it seems you left right after our prince played his song?”

Lyanna couldn’t help a raised eyebrow at that; when had this beauty met her brother? And more important, which brother? But she did seem to recall Ned looking at the woman before Lyanna took her leave; Brandon had laughed, said he was going to ask Ashara to dance on his brother’s behalf. In the events that followed she’d quite forgotten to ask about it.

“My lady, I beg you be more specific,” she smiled; Ashara seemed to invite such a reaction. The other woman smiled in return herself, as if she was in on a joke Lyanna wasn’t quite privy to. “I have three brothers, you see.”

“Of course,” the smile turned sardonic. “I was fortunate to meet all three, yesterday, although it was Lord Eddard to whom I spoke the most; young Master Benjen left soon after yourself, and Lord Brandon… well, let us say, Lord Brandon was quite busy with the ladies. I did take a turn with him, myself, but found Lord Eddard a better company, although a very quiet one.”

Unused to society though she was, Lyanna still caught the insinuation left in the air. _Of course he would be_. Even with his betrothed present, he would’ve danced the night away with whatever ladies he fancied, and there would be plenty. Brandon was no more inclined to constancy than Robert Baratheon; it was only his innate sense of duty and northern austerity that kept her beloved, but deeply flawed, elder brother from being a completely dissipated dandy.

That Lady Ashara preferred quiet, dutiful, but profoundly honorable Ned spoke in her favor far more than her royal connections ever would. Ned was not the heir, though he would have a sizable allowance, owing to her family’s nobility; he was a quiet man, but one who was deeply loyal and steadfast in every way.

“I love my brothers,” she said, “but they are not perfect, as none of us are.”

“Just so,” the other woman agreed, with a small tilt of her head; her smile turned soft and the knot in her shoulders, which Lyanna was not aware of, relaxed. She liked the Lady Ashara, she realized; she seemed good, and kind, and not at all a poisonous snake; and in her heart of hearts, she hoped. She was not quite sure what it was for; but she did, nonetheless, a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, almost like a longing.

“It is unfortunate you left so early,” Lady Ashara cut through her thoughts. “I wished to meet the elusive Lady Lyanna. You have quite the fame, my lady! And your exit was most dramatic as well; the gossip mill was abuzz for the rest of the night.”

For some reason, that made Lyanna giggle, rather than cringe. She _did_ have a fame; a very great one; even if none of it was good. Her exit truly _was_ dramatic.

“I assure you, my lady, I am not nearly as interesting as society makes me seem,” she laughed. “I was merely indisposed; it was nothing grave. My little brother Benjen was being a pest, as well,” she giggled, trading a look with Ashara, one reciprocated. She supposed that, as unlike each other as they were, they did have that in common: the plague of beloved younger brothers.

“I dare say you are,” she grinned. “Women such as ourselves earn our reputations by being extraordinary; even if most of the gossips get all the details wrong. I pray you have recovered, then?”

“I have; it was nothing serious.”

 _Merely an attack of tender feelings, brought by the Prince Regent’s exquisite talents at the piano._ She hadn’t returned after that, retreating to Stormhawk’s company, where she could weep in peace and mourn her mother as she leaned against her stallion’s side. A good cry and a good night’s sleep were enough to restore her equilibrium.

“That is wonderful to hear,” she said, and sounded sincere, as well. She had dimples, Lyanna realized. Gods, but she was pretty. “It is a shame you missed the rest of our Prince’s recital; he plays so well. Hopefully, he shall play again tonight.”

She knew not what to say, and so, just inclined her head in agreement.

Unbidden, a memory came to Lyanna’s head, something she’d heard whispered the night before. It was said that Ashara Dayne had been, or still was, the Prince’s paramour; that in spite of her close friendship with the Princess Elia, she had been sharing his bed since before they’d even married.

It would make sense; it was no secret that Lord Arthur Dayne was a constant companion of the Prince’s; brother and sister were close, as well, and she was often at court. The Lady Ashara was beautiful in every way; what man would not wish to have her? What a stunning image they would make, him, in all his silver glory, and Ashara, golden as the Dornish sun!

Yet the thought of the Lady Ashara and the Prince Regent together bothered her greatly; she was not quite sure why.

It might be the lady picked up on her discomfort, for a look came to her eyes -- those beautiful, violet eyes, as exotic as that of the Targaryens. It was not unkind, merely assessing; Lyanna felt her cheeks pink slightly under the scrutiny.

“I hope so as well, my lady. He plays very well,” which was the simple truth. “Do you play, Lady Ashara?”

“No; I dare say I do not. I am terrible at the piano, and a worse singer,” she chuckled, and it made Lyanna smile again, her embarrassment and discomfort all but forgotten. “I do however enjoy writing. Do you enjoy the arts, my lady?”

This caught Lyanna’s attention. While she, much as her elder and youngest brother, was fond of the outdoors and vigorous exercise more than the arts, she had a fascination for them as only one who cannot do what they admire can have. She enjoyed reading, as well, though she preferred the folktales told around the north, near a warm hearth or around a campire. Ashara certainly noticed it.

“I do; very much so; but I am afraid I am not good at them; at least, not in those admired as such,” she said, a hint of humour lacing her voice. “That is, unless horse-riding is considered an art these days.”

“I do believe it should,” Lady Ashara replied, ever so kindly, and something in Lyanna’s belly warmed at the thought. “I, myself, am terrible at it; my brother laughs at me all the time. I am quite afraid of horses, you see,” she smiled, self-deprecating, and it was horrifically endearing to Lyanna. “You, however! Your fame runs far, even to our humble home in Dorne; they say you are a true centaur yourself.”

The warmth in her belly at Lady Ashara’s words, the glow of pride and happiness surprised even herself. That same feeling sharpened, fluttered in her insides in a way she’d never truly felt before. In other circumstances she may have wondered at it; as such, she simply accepted it for what it was. Longing; something she’d missed her entire life, and never noticed, until the possibility hung before her eyes.

 _I want her to be my friend_.

“The gossips exaggerate, my lady, though I admit I am quite good a horsewoman. If you so desire, I could teach you…?”

To her surprise, Ashara’s face broke into a grin -- showing perfect, white teeth -- and she clapped her hands excitedly, something far more like a girl younger than they were -- she suspected she and Ashara were of an age, or close enough. It only endeared the woman further to her.

“Oh yes, please! I do so wish to overcome this fear of mine; it’s unbecoming for a woman of Dorne,” she said.

Lyanna had no time to answer, however, as soon after the men rejoined them -- Brandon making a beeline straight to them, with Eddard right on his heels. One look at her beloved Ned’s face was enough for her to see what she suspected.

_Well. Might be we will be more than friends, then._

The idea warmed her heart far more than all the hearths in the Whent’s Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet Lady Ashara :D She was supposed to appear during the hunt, but it wouldn't fit with what I eventually wrote. Lyanna needs female friends, that's all I'm saying. She's surrounded by dudes all the time; girl needs a break.  
> Also, updates will be slower -- I'm back to work, plus some extra projects that take away all my writing time :(


	7. Revolutionary Étude

He hated politics. Quite unfortunate, then, that he'd been born in the Royal Family, and as the firstborn, no less.

If he hadn't, he might've been just a musician, a traveling bard as in the old times; he'd earn his coin playing his piano, charming the nobles into patronizing his business, writing symphonies and concertos. He'd thought about it, more than once. He had a few compositions, including some that might be considered masterpieces. He did not lack in skill: it took no vanity to admit he was a gifted musician. It was something he took pride in, far more than in his bloodline, the great, violent history of madness and pain he'd unwillingly inherited.

For a few seconds, Rhaegar let his eyes drift shut, and he thought of it. Wandering Westeros and Essos, bringing his skills as far as Asshai. Playing in the halls of the lords of Braavos, in the pleasure houses of Lys...

For a moment, he let himself dream, the murmur of the lords' voices drifting into something else, something sweet. In his mind he saw it: the parties, of the feasts, the laughter, the artists, the women -- the _woman_ \--

His fingers curled into his palm, hard enough he could feel the sting of his nails against his flesh. _No. Do not go there._

Rhaegar looked at his dreams, that beautiful picture he had in his mind; took it, and, in his mind's palace, he took those images, folded them, placed them in the chest where he kept all his hopes, his desires, his _dreams_. There they would lay, to be picked up when he needed them again. It was fruitless; he had his duty; and for all his flaws, Rhaegar was ever dutiful.

"There is war coming," he said, little above a whisper, but it was enough to silence the lords of the realm. "I will present it to the Parliament the next month. But my lords, we all know it. There is unrest in the Slaver's Bay, and I am afraid it will crack into open war soon. There is unrest north of the Wall as well, is there not, Lord Brandon? I fear the Iron Islands will decide to stir again, as well. We may well be caught in a three-pronged conflict we can ill afford."

He saw Brandon nod. Hesitate. He knew why.

The North was always a difficult territory for Westeros, not because they were particularly troublesome, but because of the longstanding isolation they kept. Lord Rickard was a true balm in that aspect, being more open to southern sensibilities than his predecessors; sending his son Eddard south to foster in the Vale was a good move. But it was too little, too late against the entrenched wariness the rest of the realm felt for northerners. That they practiced the Old Faith and rejected many of the customs accepted by those south of the Neck didn't help matters. Many saw the northerners as savage, strange people. That he had sent his four children south for Lord Whent's celebration bode well for their relationship with the rest of Westeros; he knew both Brandon and Lyanna had plans to wed away from their own region. Eddard might as well, if Arthur was right in his observations, and Ser Arthur was often right.

If he didn't know better, he'd wonder about Lord Rickard's ambitions, and whether the old man was planning something.

Their reputation, or lack thereof, however, meant that the rest of the lords were fairly unlikely to offer support to the North, in case they needed it; and if the reports from beyond the Wall meant something, they would.

"I honestly wonder how the Iron Islanders replenish so quickly," he heard Lord Baratheon sigh, in an attempt, no doubt, at levity. It was welcome, if off-colored. "I guess the salt wife custom helps them."

The lords chuckled, mostly politely; Rhaegar, against his own will, found some amusement there as well. Salt wives indeed. There was another people who had quite... different... customs to that of Westeros. Sometimes he wondered whether he'd have been happier as a Greyjoy, too, though the war and pillaging lifestyle wasn't quite to his taste.

"We'll have to tread carefully, my lords," he sighed. "If we can avoid conflict in the north, we can conserve our energies to protect our realm, and our holdings in Essos. Mayhaps even avoid outright rebellion," there was another dream; he rather hoped he would not have war at all. His reign had barely started; he'd rather have some peace, preferably forever. But even Rhaegar knew how unlikely that was. His father's abysmal treatment of their Essosi territories meant it was likely they would rebel. They would have a civil war on their hands. Their position in Essos had always been precarious, and the Targaryen madness did not help matters at all.

The past would come for them. It always did. And the realm would pay, as it always did, for his father's dissipation, for his carelessness, for his genuine cruelty.

Gods, he needed to play.

"Lord Brandon, please write to your father," he said, rather abruptly; it cut through the conversation, which had turned to speculation about war plans, when Rhaegar's own thoughts turned to how to not have a war at all. He supposed many of the men were somehow... keen on the conflict; he knew there were profits in war, as many as there was devastation, death and pain. Some were more reserved, and it was on those lords he counted when it came to bring the matter to the Parliament. "I believe that, if it's not an undue imposition, I will follow your family north, to discuss matters personally. I would like to weigh the situation myself."

It would have to do. He hoped, in his heart of hearts, that his efforts would matter.

He wasn't born for this, but there was no one else; he would have to be enough.

**

It was only later, much later, when the Whent household and their guests went to bed, that he crept through the silenced halls, to where his ultimate goal rested.

Harrenhal was a massive castle, even for its time; while most of it was shut off and deserted, it was no surprise this small, music room remained abandoned, although, for all purposes, it did not seem so. Moonlight seeped through the window, rendering the whole room in shades of silver, blue and gray. His candle scarce made a difference in the dark; this room would be in a penumbra even with a bright midday sun. It did not matter, however, not to him. What mattered was the old, worn piano, which was in tune only by the will of the gods, for it seemed it sat untouched for years. He needn't light to play, especially not at this hour. It was enough that the room was far away from the family and guest chambers that the noise would not rouse anyone.

The piano was faded and old and yet, he could feel it speak to him, through the keys, the memories it held, the quirks. The smooth ivory worn from dozens of hands, mostly children, he imagined; the Whent daughters, all four of them, may have learned here. All were passable musicians, though none had the talent to truly make him take note of them.

He was good, though. Very much so.

His hands moved almost on their own, without his conscious thought, and he felt the weight fall down his shoulders, shed away like a cloak, as the warmth returned to his limbs. In music, he was a conduit; it came from nowhere, merely using his hands to make itself known. He never fought it, for why would he? The music flowed like a torrent through him, through his body, so much he could feel it ring on his nerves. Somewhere, from outside his own self, he remembered the Lady Lyanna's words. _They cannot, for they have not felt it. Though, Your Grace, I believe you can._

_Was this how she felt? As if her whole body ceased to exist, became something greater than itself, and infinitely more lovely?_

_Yes, I understand. But you are wrong, my lady. It is alive. No; it is life itself._

It was not the instrument, not really. It was the music; and it was alive, very much so, writhing through his nerves, scourging through his veins, demanding to be born. He was powerless to stop it, so onward it came. Tomorrow, he would write it down; he never forgot his creations, no more than a mother would forget their child. Tomorrow, he would fix its flaws, address its quirks, guide it through what was good, clean out the birth fluids from its rhythm, and its pulse. For now, it was labour; and he let it be born.

Lost in his art, he never noticed the slight figure watching him from the threshold.

**

The music (full disclosure, this is one of my favorite Chopin pieces):

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's all this politics in my Regency romance? :o Oh well, something was needed, we'll see what soon. On the bright side, I've some idea where this story is going now which... is not where I expected it to go, but that's writing for you ^^


	8. Die Lorelei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in the dark.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, listening. The music transfixed her; it resonated to the pulse in her blood, the beat of her heart. The dark only intensified the feeling; it might as well be another world, with only the two of them in a dusty music room.

Then it ended; and she felt herself sway, as if drunk, in the void created by the sudden silence. The musician breathed hard, and she found herself breathless, too.

“You know, my lady, someone once told me it is quite rude to spy on others...”

Lyanna smiled; she deserved that. She should not be intruding on such a private moment — and she knew it to be private; creation always was. Still, it was only right, she reasoned: he’d intruded in her time with Stormhawk as well. Not that the two things ever compared; but then, she believed they did, on their most fundamental level.

Whatever the Prince Regent was doing alone in the dark, however, was over. He started again, fingers gliding over the keys as if of their own volition. There was something different about this one, though, something sweeter — and at the same time, less personal. She drifted closer, without thought, until she found herself next to the piano, her own fingers brushing the polished wood.

With only the candlelight to break the gloom, she was left in the dark; it made it easier, somehow, to watch him, not that he paid her any mind at all, beyond that comment. In that soft amber light, she could see why the Targaryen sigil was the dragon: he looked dangerous, draconian, truly, his beautiful face set in a sort of neutral aloofness — she hadn’t realized how expressive he truly was until that moment. The warmth of the fire lent his skin a strange sort of pallor; his hair, usually so fair it looked silver, became a soft, sunlight gold, falling in waves and framing his face, unbound. She wondered whether it was as soft as it looked.

Unbidden, the thought of him and the Lady Ashara together slipped back into her mind; her nails curled into the wood of the piano, in tandem with the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. She frowned, her brow furrowing at her own body's reactions.

”This one isn’t yours,” she couldn’t possibly tell how she knew it, but she did. The lively tune was unlike the previous melody she'd heard, and the one before. The Prince nodded, not once looking away from the keys, though she doubted he even saw them. He seemed quite lost in his thoughts, though he played it with the usual skill, even distracted as he was; thoughts that did not include her. That was well and good; they scarcely knew each other, and it was only the music that drew her to that room, like a moth to the flame.

”It isn’t,” he agreed. “This one is from a good friend of mine. He dedicated it to me,” he paused. “I enjoy playing it, if only to honour him.”

A lifetime with animals meant Lyanna was attuned to shifting moods; you had to be, especially when it came to larger beasts such as horses, animals more than capable of causing serious damage and death. But horses were obvious, their sensibilities loud and clear, if only one knew where to look. Humans were different; they had a different weight and depth to their emotions, and they masked them well. Lyanna did not understand them half as well. She could feel it in him, though, something in the way he spoke of his friend. The Prince Rhaegar was ever melancholy, something utterly unfamiliar to her, who'd always been a happy child, much as her siblings. There was something else there, she could tell, in the way he said _a good friend of mine_. She suspected that, whoever he was, there was a whole other level of feeling hidden there.

"It doesn't fit you," she mused aloud, apropos of nothing. Immediately she wanted to take it back; but to her surprise, he laughed; a sad, low sound.

"No, it does not," he sighed. "Jon does not know me nearly as much as he thinks he does. I guess it's to be expected, being... who I am," he shrugged. "But I imagine it is less about me, and more about Jon... well. It is no matter."

Lyanna could understand that; people would look at him and see the Silver Prince, with his unearthly appearance and many skills. It would be easy to believe you knew everything about him from a single look, or a couple choice words. She understood, as it was the same with her. Part of her wondered just who Rhaegar Targaryen truly was; but maybe it was just his music speaking to her feminine sensibilities; mayhaps she'd been too sheltered, she reasoned. It was true Lyanna had never been to society for so long, and certainly not this close to royal persons. Noble though she may be, sometimes she felt like little more than a country maiden.

As she lost herself in her thoughts, he'd finished again, immediately engaging in another song; this a folk tune well known through Westeros, though embellished by his art. But this time, she felt him looking at her, and she thought the appraisal in his eyes was neither imagination nor daydream. Presently, he smiled, and a hand tapped the bench besides him; a clear invitation.

Inexplicably, Lyanna felt her cheeks pink, though she did accept the invitation, sitting by his side. There they stayed, in contemplative silence, as he slipped from tune to tune, seemingly restless now that she was so near -- or maybe it was just her own restlessness, projected onto him. She knew well how emotions could infect others; it was one of the first lessons in horse husbandry. What you feel, he can feel; she supposed men were not so different. Her palms were damp, where they rested on her thighs, nails twisting in the fabric of her breeches. Even with riding boots, her ankles crossed of their own volition, neck bowing in reverent quiet.

"This is quite improper, Your Grace," she said, rather inanely. Everything about that night was improper. From her wandering the halls at night, to him, to the interlude in the dark.

"So it is," was his answer. He didn't seem to care and, truth be told, neither did she. Impropriety was in her veins; she'd never much cared for the rules of society, especially not during such an innocent interaction. "It is improper for a young lady to wander at night. Who knows what strange personages she might encounter," his lip quirked a little, his eyes darting to her -- was he teasing her? She rather thought he was; the thought amused her more than it should.

"Indeed," her own lip quirked. "They say Harrenhal is haunted; I did not expect to find a ghost of music among them, however."

The mood shifted again; the music drifted towards something slower, almost dreamlike.

"I assure you, my lady," he said, in a murmur, so quiet she fought the urge to lean closer to hear him better. Rhaegar had a fine voice, as well; deep and rich; she supposed it was one of the many virtues bestowed by those chosen by the gods to rule over them. "I am no spirit; merely a man of flesh and blood."

For some reason, that made her shiver; on reflex, she made to stand, though her legs seemed quite content to keep her where she was.

"Men are dangerous," her own voice was hushed. "Far more than spirits."

"Yes," so quiet, _too_ quiet. "We are."

There was something in his voice, though, something she did not know how to decipher, that had her whole body tensing, like a doe in sight of a hunter. Lyanna did not know what instinct took her over then; just as abruptly as she'd arrived, she found herself running, far away from that place, and back into the security of her own chambers.

Dawn found her curled under the covers, still awake, a odd feeling coursing through her veins; one she could not understand, but that was, nonetheless, strangely familiar.

***

The music:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** Franz Liszt was a virtuoso pianist and composer, and something of a rockstar back in the day -- apparently women went hysterical over him, fought over his handkerchiefs and yeah. He was basically the Beatles a century before the Beatles were even born (not actually kidding: they even coined the term Lisztomania back then, for the wild emotions he caused -- some actually treated it like an illness). He earned so much money with his piano that he could donate all he earned to charity, which he did. He was very theatrical, and just a downright genius when it came to the piano. He was a close friend to Frederic Chopin as well, and it's largely thanks to that association that Chopin began making money with his music, and gaining some fame. Liszt and Chopin's friendship soured some say due to their respective romantic entanglements: Liszt's lover, Marie D'Agoult, was _too_ interested in Chopin, or Liszt himself was _too_ interested in George Sand.
> 
> Here, I'm giving the role of Liszt essentially to Jon Connington (though frankly, it probably fit Rhaegar better, but whatever). Die Lorelei was dedicated to Liszt's lover and mother of his three children. Here, it's dedicated to Rhaegar, because reasons. ;)


	9. Black Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude.

Rhaegar traveled alone; it was a habit acquired during his boyhood, one he found difficult to shake. As Prince Regent, he hadn’t changed, though he knew it was significantly more dangerous for a man of his stature. Ironically, it made him unduly popular with his folk: he would often stay in inns, incognito, and pay handsomely, for he could afford it. His people saw it as a sign of humility and economy; he knew it was a habit forged from his custom of loneliness and distance.

But he had come to the Whent estate with an entourage of sorts; it made no sense for them to travel alone; and he would go north with yet another, albeit one of a different nature. The Lannisters would return to the capital by themselves; Arthur would come north with him; it surprised him to see his sister would come as well. Apparently, there had been a rapport between her and the middle Stark boy, and the Stark girl as well. He could not possibly understand how; they were as unlike each other as summer and winter; and yet it would seem Ashara grew quite fond of the girl anyway.

The girl he had not seen since the morning after their encounter in the dark.

***

_”I am sorry Your Grace,” she’d cornered him in the morning, as he took a wall in the Whent’s private garden. “I did not mean to be impolite and impose on you last night.”_

_“It is no trouble, my lady, you did not.”_

_She had; that he hadn’t minded spoke volumes about her, and him as well. But he would not tell her such a thing; instead, he gave her a smile — one that surprised him for being genuine and not fabricated politeness._

_The Lady Lyanna gifted him with one of her own in return, much shyer than one would believe in such a woman. Just as quickly, she dropped into a curtsy — completely at odds with her attire — and left him, her long strides carrying her out of the godswood in a matter of seconds._

_***_

The courtyard was alive with people and horses. Men in livery carried trunks to coaches and filled saddlebags, adjusted saddles and bridles. Some of the men preferred to ride, while others made do with their coaches. Ladies tittered as they waited; gentlemen offered them hands to climb their respective coaches. Beside him, Lord Whent stood vigil, an air of deep satisfaction in his handsome face.

”The King departed at the earliest hour of dawn,” he said. “He did not wish to wait. Said something about too many people.”

”His paranoia gets ever stronger. It is fortunate when we manage to have him make any sense at all.”

”Truly tragic. I knew King Aerys as a lad. He was a fine man.”

”He was,” Rhaegar agreed easily, though he had never met this person they claimed was his father. The King was mad well before Rhaegar’s birth, though he’d hidden it well from the public for all of Rhaegar’s childhood. His abuses restricted themselves to his family, namely his mother, Rhaella, and himself. Rhaegar would always remember the screams and the beatings that the Kingsguard conveniently ignored.

He’d seen his mother bruised and scratched too often to ever believe his father was a fine man. He had been bruised and scratched too often to believe that.

Those abuses stopped once Rhaegar was old and strong enough to intervene.

But he understood: the man Lord Whent knew was the man Aerys had been in his youth. A man who was gregarious and prone to dissipation, for his father enjoyed his parties and drinking and, of course, his mistresses; he’d served well in the Army, and truthfully had been a fairly decent king. It was what put Rhaegar in his quandary: while his father was mad, and a horrible man to his family, he was popular and beloved by his subjects — until, of course, he wasn’t, and his paranoia reached well beyond the acceptable limits for commoners and nobles alike.

It was not hard to displace him, then. Something Aerys still opposed bitterly, convinced that his son and heir intended to kill and usurp him. If only he knew how little Rhaegar cared for this power!

”You are a fine man yourself, Your Grace. You must know I wish nothing but prosperity to you,” Lord Whent, he believed, was even sincere in his praise. While Aerys still had staunch supporters, they were mostly minor lords from the Crownlands, many of whom were raised up by Aerys’s largesse. Of course the Lord of Harrenhal wouldn't want his new sovereign to believe he was... nostalgic for the former king.

”Many thanks, my lord. You have been a most exceptional host and friend. I am immensely grateful for the opportunity provided, as well.”

Lord Whent bowed in return. They all knew the ball was an excuse to gather some of the highest nobility together to discuss matters of state. It had been productive, if not as much as he'd wished: Aerys's unexpected presence certainly put a damper on matters, though fortunately his father spent most of his stay sequestered in his chambers -- and left just as quickly. His presence had been enough to make everyone wary, however.

Still, it was progress, and Rhaegar would see it to its end. He had to.

Quicker than one would've expected, coaches departed, horses saddled, and trunks affixed to their respective places. He was not looking forward for the journey north; it was a long distance, and a tiresome one at that. It _would_ afford plenty of opportunity to gauge Lord Brandon and what he planned for the region he would one day inherit as Warden, as well as potential issues that may arise from that. It would be a lie to say he didn't worry. Lord Brandon was known for having a temper; wolf-blooded, as the northerners said. That could be an asset, if they did fall into a war, but it could also cause problems. Rhaegar was not looking forward to dealing with a man who preferred womanizing and fighting over his duty as a heir; he already had one Robert Baratheon to deal with. He did not need another.

And then there was her.

_No. Do not go there._

He had to meet with Elia, soon. Maybe he should send summons while at the North; they could meet at King's Landing. It had been over a year since he had last visited her in Dorne, although they corresponded frequently.

Yes, his wife would know what to do. He was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleck, another crappy one, oh well. We depart to the North :)  
>  **Unsolicited historical facts:** King George IV, who began his reign as Prince Regent and gave the Regency period its name, was the first English monarch to visit Scotland and Ireland in a long time. While this was meant to divert the king from Parliament affairs, and he was basically persuaded into going, it did help calm unrest in Scotland. Interestingly, the King’s usage of tartan and kilt helped popularize those back among the Scottish people as part of their national identity.
> 
> I know it’s wildly unrealistic that the Prince Regent would wander all over Westeros essentially by himself (then again we’re talking about someone who seemingly went and absconded with a noblewoman with relative ease), but I honestly don’t see the man in question as being fond of the pomp and circumstance. His logic is that going with only a handful of lords is more economical and safer by virtue of attracting less attention. Besides, it isn’t an official visit anyway. Let’s just roll with it, mmk?


	10. Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief conversation while at sea.

There was something hypnotic about the sea. The greys and greens of the waves drew her in a way she had not expected them to. Maybe it was the way the sun shone on them, or the constant motion rolling beneath her feet, a lot smoother than she'd thought it would be; she was not quite sure what, but she found herself watching the ocean in the earliest hours of the morning, a strange sense of dreamlike peace coming over her, almost like a pull, a need to figure out what lied beneath the surface, what wonders those snow-capped crests held. It was not quite surprising; Lyanna was always fond of the outdoors; but she'd never been at sea before, and the experience was as new as it was enchanting. She could believe the stories of sailors drifting into the waves, chasing impossible maidens into the depths.

Unfortunately, her stomach hadn't agreed with her mind's elation; the first three days she had been quite ill; ill enough to sequester herself in her cabin, the one she shared with the Lady Ashara. But on the fourth day of their journey her stomach quieted, the world stopped spinning, and she found she could walk around deck and enjoy the sunshine, the wind, and the view.

"I almost did not recognize you, my lady," his voice came from behind her. It was only Lyanna's self-control that kept her from visibly startling.

"Your Grace," she curtsied. It looked a lot more natural with her current attire. "The Lady Ashara and my brothers thought it might be best if I look a woman while we are at sea."

The Prince merely quirked an eyebrow in reply. As it was, she shared his skepticism. She did not quite understand the logic, but being three voices against one (Benjen, the traitor, abstained from giving an opinion, too excited by being on a ship to care), she thought it best to swallow her discomfort and her pride and obey. Their reasoning was that looking a woman would keep her safer; that she might not be "confused" with a man, and liberties taken with her person because of that. She wagered the justifications were entirely fabricated (it made no sense to her _why_ this attire would protect her from liberties more than the dirk she often wore with her usual) machinations by Lady Ashara to see what figure she cut in womanly habits. That her brothers agreed was expected: she suspected Ned would jump off the ship if the Lady so required, and Brandon never missed an opportunity to mess with her, anyway.

As it was, her figure was no more flattered in the simple day gown Lady Ashara chose for her than in her usual shirt, coat and pantaloons. Her hair was braided and twisted at the back of her head, leaving her neck bare; the corsage was not enough to give her more womanly shapes or improve on her rather modest bosom; she thought she looked a child in a woman's clothes, no matter that she was nine and ten. It was not uncomfortable, at least, which was a boom; with the queasiness, she might have ruined more than one of Lady Ashara's so kindly lent dresses with her... indisposition.

From the corner of her eye she could see the Prince come to stand beside her; it made her sigh inwards, expecting the inevitable way she would humiliate herself in his presence again. At the same time, she welcomed the company. It would be a lie to say that their brief encounters were unpleasant. They were not; the Prince was unfailingly polite, if overly familiar; she imagined being such an important personage gave him freedom to act in ways she would not be permitted to. But it was not his actions the cause of her distress; it was her own thoughts and inadequacies that made her want to run whenever the man was in view.

“You always look a woman, my lady,” he said, so quiet she could scarcely hear him over the roar of wind, sea and men. “By virtue of being one. No matter what habits you wear.”

Her cheeks were pink. She told herself it was the wind that made them ruddy, not the strange, indigo eyes studying her, or the contrast of heat and cold of his presence so close to her own.

”That is not true, Your Grace,” she felt compelled to say. It was not; Lyanna knew she looked more young lad than maiden, other than her full head of hair, and her custom made the impression even stronger. She’d been called man, boy and lad often enough to know his assurances were empty flattery.

It did not matter that his reassurance warmed and pleased her in a way that was most unbecoming of her. Gods, she was foolish.

His lips quirked in a humorous smile. He had fine lips; surprisingly pink for a man.

”You know,” he said, just as quiet as before, a light coming into his eyes. “You just contradicted your Prince.”

”If my Prince does not wish to be contradicted,” she made her voice just as soft. “He should not tell lies.”

He laughed at that, a musical sound that had her fighting her own smile and a strange, pleasant warmth to her belly. She liked that he laughed; she suspected he did not have much occasion to do so. Rhaegar Targaryen did not seem a very happy man, which, she supposed, was adequate for his position, but not as good for his own soul.

”You are quite original, are you not, Lady Stark?” his voice was warm, too, almost in wonder.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she bowed her head.

Somehow, in their very brief conversation, they’d come closer than she expected, turning to each other unconsciously. He lifted a hand to her face — she held her breath, suddenly aware of their proximity, the way his eyes dropped to hers — to her lips — and back to her own.

But whatever he meant to do, died before he could; that strange light in his eyes faded; she saw his fingers curl into his palm, and his first draw back to his side. He took a step back, and she blinked, as if shaking off a dream. Instead, his hand sought her own, his skin dry against hers; and for a second she wondered whether he was going to kiss her hand. He did not, merely bowed over it, and left her staring after his back and the way the sunshine haloed him in soft, golden light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes this time, but I did name this after my favorite Chopin composition, which you can listen to [here](https://youtu.be/pRlHKQXjzZY).


	11. Torrent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark brothers are not amused. Or blind.

_My Dearest Elia,_

_It has been too long since I have last sent you word, and even longer since I have seen your sweet face. As you may already know, I have been to Harrenhal for Lord Whent's daughter's Ball, and for, of course, other business, of which you are very aware. The situation in the kingdom has not been improved since your departure, my dearest, and indeed there are signs it might get worse still. Slaver's Bay is on the verge of rebellion, and there is trouble coming from the North as well, as you well know they have always resented Targaryen rule, and yet I fear they might be unduly harmed for avoiding our aid. Therefore I am going North, to talk matters with Lord Stark._

_You are aware of my tendency to avoid traveling with too large a retinue. I am accompanied by the Daynes, as they followed me to Harrenhal, and I suspect the Lady Ashara has found a reason of her own to journey North with us. We are also in company of the Stark heir, Lord Brandon, and his brothers Lord Eddard, and Master Benjen. Lady Stark is also in attendance. She seems to be a remarkable woman, Elia, although she would be the first to deny such a thing. You have no doubt heard the gossips and their stories about her. I assure you there are as many true ones as there are false ones. She would surely get along with your brother, as she has a great interest in horseflesh, and with yourself, Elia, although I do not believe she has many female friends in the North. Lyanna Stark is a mystery, dearest wife, and you know how I am about mysteries._

_Elia, the issues of government and state have kept me from our quest, but I will make sure to speak to my uncle at the Wall, who is sure to know more than we do, if only by virtue of age. I truly hope your health has improved during your stay at the Water Gardens. Would you join me in King's Landing? Will the journey be too hard on your constitution? It has been long since I have seen the children, and Elia, I need you by my side, as my princess, my future queen; but not at the expense of your health; so please, do not overtax yourself with a journey you do not feel ready for._

_How fare our children? I miss sweet Rhaenys’s smile. She had grown so much the last time we visited, and little Aegon had just started walking. I fear I am missing their best years and days, yet, I am loathe to part them from you, sweet Elia._

_By the time this letter reaches you I will be at Winterfell; please direct your answer there. I hope you are well, and that we may meet again shortly._

_Your faithful husband,_

_Rhaegar Targaryen._

***

White Harbor was a hive of activity, with men, women and horses crawling through what seemed to be every corner. After a week cooped up in a ship, it was a relief to be on land -- even if he felt out of balance after so long at sea.

The northern air felt good, though. Cleaner, likely due to the marked cold. While it was spring, it still had a bite to it, a bite he was sure would never truly go away.

”We will take our lunch at the inn over there,” Lord Brandon said, “and then dine with the Manderlys. They are the Stark’s staunchest supporters.”

He knew that, although part of him wondered how Wyman Manderly would feel about hosting the Prince Regent at such short note — if he was even aware at all. While Rhaegar was not fond of pomp, he knew others always though he needed it; due to his station if nothing else.

There was still a sense of excitement about it, though. Traveling near incognito, with only a handful of people, sounded like a grand old adventure, the likes of which he dreamed about as a child — before his mother disabused him of that notion of freedom.

”I should mail this letter before we go,” he told Lord Brandon, but made no move to do so. They watched as the sailors unloaded their bags and supplies from the ship, loading them to the coach that would take them to the Manderlys and from there, to Winterfell.

Besides him, Lord Brandon sighed.

“My lord father will kill me,” he muttered to himself. Rhaegar needn’t not ask why, as he trailed the young man’s gaze to his sister, back in her usual pantaloons and coat, helping unload her horse from the ship. He had a feeling this was not something Lord Stark would approve.

“I should not have allowed her to bring that horse,” he said. “My lord father hoped that our stay with the Whents would help her see the error of her ways. That being with young women of her station would inspire her to be more womanly. Instead, she spent most of her time with that beast, as she does at home.”

Rhaegar couldn’t help a snort at that. He barely knew the woman, but she did not strike him as someone that easily influenced.

Then again, had she not changed, albeit briefly, at Lady Ashara’s behest? Mayhaps there was some truth to the Lord Stark’s belief that she was as she was due to a lack of feminine influence rather than personal inclination. The thought saddened him, for some reason.

The woman in question seemed oblivious to them, brushing her fingers through the horse’s mane and speaking soothingly at him.

”Was she always like that?”

”Oh yes,” Lord Brandon smiled, seemingly in spite of himself. “Even when she was a wee lass, she’d hide in the stables and charm the horses. Even the drafts we used for logging. Once when she was all but seven we found her riding one of the big ones. Father was not amused, although I think he was rather proud of her boldness.”

Meanwhile, the young woman in question had finished with her horse, which now stood tacked and calm by her side as she spoke soothing words to the coach horses. The poor beasts seemed to enjoy the attention. He imagined they didn’t get much in ways of affection on a daily basis.

”I imagine he would be,” he agreed. “You northerners value boldness and strength, do you not?”

”Aye, we do.”

Presently Lord Eddard joined them, a somber, solemn figure so strikingly unlike his brother and sister, while Arthur and the Lady Ashara decided to join the Lady Stark near the coach. The three made a fine group indeed, and he could see eyes turning to track Arthur and Ashara, as the clear foreigners among the people of the North. He had to admit the siblings made a striking pair; Ashara’s vibrant blue dress a spot of color in the overcast White Harbor sky, her arm in her brother’s own, himself proud and handsome, dark hair contrasting with the golden hue of his skin and indigo eyes. He watched as she made idle conversation with Lady Stark, the northern lady's face alight at the attention. Young Master Benjen soon stuck to his sister’s side as well, staring at Arthur in wide-eyed wonder; Rhaegar saw his sister laugh at whatever he'd said to the other man, her fingers sinking into his hair and ruffling it affectionately. It was sweet, in a way.

Lord Eddard seemed to notice where his eye and mind was, for, drawing beside Rhaegar so he was flanked on both sides by Starks, he said, “she practically raised him. Our mother died not long after Benjen’s birth, and Lyanna... she is not conventional, that is true, but she does have the heart of a woman.”

He paused, as if deliberating what to say. Rhaegar observed as the brothers looked at each other in silent communication. He felt a stab of envy at that; while he had Viserys, there was twenty years between them, and no common brotherly ground to be had at that. The closest he had of such was Arthur, and even then, their stations set them apart as much as it brought them together.

”She says she does not want to marry, but I believe she will make Lord Baratheon a fine wife.”

_Ah. There_. The warning he’d been waiting for. Implicit though it was, and quiet, Rhaegar was not foolish enough to not see the look in the two pairs of grey eyes cast on him. It was clear as day, charmingly said though it was. _Stay away from her._ He would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but it would not do to unduly antagonize the heirs to the North. He already had to deal with New Valyria’s quest to secede; it would not do to have the North do so as well. 

Yet the dragon in him wanted to rally. To remind them of their place — he had done nothing but share conversation with the woman, he’d never — but he did remember that night in the Whent's music room and how she’d listened. How she’d known Jon’s composition from his own, as if she understood the difference in their natures, though she’d never known him.

There was something there. It was unquestionable; he would not deny the truth of it. He had done nothing — nothing beyond the bounds of propriety — and yet... she was their sister; it was their duty to protect her womanly heart and virtue.

"I am sure she will," he said mildly, the curl of his lip giving away that he'd got Lord Eddard's message loud and clear. "Lord Baratheon is a fortunate man. He does seem quite taken with her."

"He is."

"I am glad. A passionless marriage is no good for anyone."

He should know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** Traveling in the Regency period was incredibly hard. I intended to have their whole travel by land, until I realized Harrenhal and Winterfell are _1,300 miles_ apart, according to [this site](http://got.nebulagames.net/), presumably in a straight line. Your average stagecoach would travel at 6 to 8 mph -- if you took eight hours a day, not counting stops to change horses, sleep, eat, rest... traveling from Harrenhal to Winterfell would take at least a month, and this if they had ideal conditions and nothing happened. This is compatible with canon, as Cersei mentions they took months from King’s Landing to Winterfell — then again, they likely took long breaks, had a lot of people with them, and the road wouldn’t be as good. 
> 
> The greatest risks in traveling by coach wasn't highwayman: it was the coach falling apart (breaking wheels, axles, etc.), overturning, horses suffering accidents, crashes (because yes, there was traffic back in the day too). Then there were things like snow, faulty roads, tolls, and the fact traveling crushed inside a small box was plain uncomfortable. I've visited the Portuguese National Museum of Coaches (yes that exists) and trust me, traveling coaches are super small and cramped inside. Besides, the biggest the coach, the heavier and slower it is.
> 
> I will confess I know nothing about ships, but I did see a source saying it would take a month to go from London to Buenos Aires — which is a **long** distance. So I averaged it to a week from the Saltpans to White Harbor.
> 
> So yes — traveling was difficult, which is why people would spend years without seeing each other.


	12. Waterfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia reflects on life, marriage and science.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my computer died — finally got a new one! Updates should be quicker. :)

The Water Gardens shone in soft golds and silvers. A warm breeze drifted through the carefully planned gardens, bringing with it the perfume of oranges and jasmine — a deep, rich smell that for some would be overpowering but to Elia, it was the scent of home and peace.

Beyond her, in the shallow pools, Rhaenys played with the other children, unselfconscious and happy, as if she was not a Crown Princess of Westeros. Merchants, bastards, common people and nobles alike enjoyed the Water Gardens — a centenary tradition the Dornish refused to give up.

Watching her daughter, it was hard not to remember the last time she’d seen her husband. His fair skin had turned red in the Dornish sun, but it hadn’t stopped him from going in the water with the children. Rhaenys had been all but three, little more than a babe in arms, and Aegon little over a year old. Her daughter likely did not even remember her sire. A shame, but she thought they were better that way. Let her be a carefree child for as long as she may be.

 _Your faithful husband_. He always ended his letters like that. She wondered how long that courtesy would last. By the contents of this one, she suspected not for much longer. Rhaegar wrote long, detailed letters most of the time, updating her on the kingdom’s affairs and courtly matters. That this one was so brief was more telling than the mentions of Lyanna Stark. As was his request that she come to Court with the children.

She’d stayed at the Water Gardens for years now — ever since Rhaenys was old enough to travel the long journey between King’s Landing and Sunspear. Aegon had been conceived and born in Dorne; he knew nothing in his life but sunshine and the smell of blood orange in the air. The thought of going back to King's Landing was not pleasant and yet, she knew she had to; it was one of the many duties counted under her status as Princess of Westeros. Soon to be Queen, she hoped. Aerys should not survive for much longer.

She smoothed a hand over her son’s back — as he laid fast asleep by her side, cradled in the soft cushions that filled the shades around the Water Garden pools. Yes, maybe it was time she reintroduced herself, and her children, at Court. Especially now that her husband seemingly found an object of interest great enough to speak about to her.

It would not do to stay away.

”My queen,” came a voice, somewhere to her left. She turned to see its owner, Lord Baelor Hightower, striding over to her, a charming smile on his handsome face. He was a man in his forties, upright and strong, but it was the glint of intelligence in his pale blue eyes that drew Elia in.

She liked Lord Hightower very much. She suspected he liked her too, considering how much time he spent around her, ever since she returned to Dorne.

”My lord,” she bowed her head, smiling. “I am no queen, as King Aerys lives still.”

”You are to me,” he said grandly, but the humor in his face belied his intention. “Have you had the opportunity to see my latest calculations?”

”I am sorry, my lord, as I have not. My husband has sent word, and requires my presence at Court. I shall take the material with me and return to you post haste.”

Lord Hightower was a fierce scholar and engineer, in spite of his nobility and, seeing a like-mind in Elia, confided in her about his inventions. Presently, it was an autonomous machine capable of performing calculations on its own — a marvel Elia was most keen on seeing during her lifetime, certainly. He went beyond parading his thoughts, as well: he engaged her in the process, and asked for her aid. Elia was better in logic and mathematics than he was; Lord Hightower knew it, and celebrated it.

Once, they meant to marry. What wonders would they have made, together! But the Seven chose to sent her elsewhere, and her dreams and his died in the bud. Still, her separation from her husband and her ill health meant they still spent time together. It was enough, she told herself, seeing the way Baelor frowned, how his countenance fell at her proclamation.

Her hand stretched out to his, of its own volition, and she smiled — and he in return, sad, trapping her hand in his.

It was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** Ada Lovelace, the only legitimate daughter of Lord Byron (the poet), was the first computer programmer ever. She was great friends with Charles Babbage, the inventor of the computer (“the Analytical Engine”, a mechanical calculator), and the first to see applications to it beyond simple math.
> 
> Ada was plagued by ill health her entire life: she had measles as a child, and nearly died after the birth of her second child. She had an unhappy beginning, with a mother who used her for economic power and little else; but that enforced her education as a way to keep her from following in her father’s path (Byron had many, many issues, and also many lovers, which Lady Byron resented).
> 
> As an adult, she gambled, had contacts among the finest minds of the time, including Charles Dickens and Michael Faraday, and was a bit scandalous in her cavalier attitude to marriage vows. None of it overshadowed her contributions to computer science as a whole, however. She died at 36 of uterine cancer after a rich and productive if brief life. Ada Lovelace is a woman I admire very much.
> 
> I admit I am a bit salty about how people tend to pigeonhole Elia in the role of “Rhaegar’s wife” and little else, even when she doesn’t die tragically as she did in canon, so I wanted to give her a bit more substance than that (which doesn’t show much here, but will in the future). :)


	13. Winter Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our protagonists finally reach Winterfell. Brandon and Lyanna have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this well before chapters 10, 11 AND 12, then I did research and had to reshuffle. #justresearchthings  
> Also, turned out way longer than expected... oh well!

Lyanna Stark was never happier than when she was on horseback.

It cleared her mind; it grounded her in such a way that she felt like someone else altogether. Someone, she thought, far better; someone real. On Storm’s back she was not Lady Lyanna; she was just Lya, in a place where decorum and gentility didn’t matter, where her birth and breeding were unimportant. Storm didn’t care; she could he the lowliest of country girls, she could be a blind beggar calling for alms, she could be a highway robber, and he would not care, so long as she treated him well.

She loved her horse so much it hurt. Sometimes, as she lay in her bed, she would dream she was him; that she saw through his eyes, feel the strong beat of his heart as if it was her own. Sometimes, on the saddle, their thoughts would pool together, as if her soul became his and his, hers; for she had no doubt horses, indeed, all animals, had souls; or if not an immortal soul, a conscious spirit that, albeit different, felt, wanted and dreamed just as hers.

They were a week into their journey back North and making good headway. The weather had been fair, with light spring showers at night, which gave mornings a clean, crisp air. It was invigorating, and Lyanna was thankful that the clear skies meant she could ride unimpeded. She would loath to be closed up in a coach; in special considering their company. The mere thought of being in such close quarters with the Prince Regent sent a brilliant flush to her fair skin. She tried to convince herself with was just the cool spring air making the fine hairs on her arms stand up to attention, but both she and Storm knew better. The horse snorted as if to mock her.

It was not; she knew well. She behaved abominably whenever they met; yet so did he, after a fashion; but she knew too well the behavior of men was not as closely guarded as that of women. Even less so for a Crown Prince, the effective ruler of their kingdom. It was shameful for her; Lyanna may not be fond of propriety in the strictest sense, but it did not mean she was not aware of it, or the effect it had over her and her family. She did keep to a standard of comportment; that level of disregard of propriety was beneath her. A week on horseback cleared her mind from the fog that coated her thoughts; she was glad for it, as she could prod and poke at her feelings at leisure, without prying eyes. At sea, she felt she was always watched, cooped up as she was among strangers. Her body and spirit thanked her for the exercise, just as much as her heart thanked her for being near her horse.

Her fingers slid through Storm’s blond mane, tightened around the hairs there. She smiled as her love leaned into her touch. At least here she was free to express her sentiments freely, without being judged for it. Oh, she had heard her share of perverse insinuations, casting doubt against her virtue, even as far as suggesting she committed crimes against nature; it did not trouble her as much as it should. If they thought her affection for her horse unnatural, so be it; she could no more control her love than she could control the rise and fall of the sea.

This: riding, in the sun, with no thoughts and nothing to bother her but the wind in her face. This is what she wanted. To be left _alone_.

"You look like a wildling," her brother's voice snapped her out of her trance. She blinked against the sunshine, not bothering to hide her sigh at the interruption. Brandon's horse flanked hers, and his own hand tugged at her hair. Today, she'd left it loose, and it fell in waves down her back, nearly to her tailbone, kept away from her face by two braids joined by a silver clip at the back of her skull. It was the style of the North, and being this close to home meant she could be freer than in Harrenhal, without the headache of the heavy buns and braids she was forced to wear for propriety's sake. For some reason society considered a woman with loose hair disheveled, but also did not approve of short hair. Hers was thick, and heavy, and quite annoying to keep in the elaborate fashions common in the South.

"Maybe I am," she shrugged, keeping pace with Brandon's horse and the coach. She longed to run; to lose herself in the forests and hills; but, alas, it was not to be.

"I'm sure Father would agree," he quipped in return. "Had he not seen you come out of Mother's womb."

She snorted, rather unladylike; it was Father's favourite reprimand. _If I hadn't seen you come out of your mother's womb, I'd take you for a changeling sent to torment me._

"I place the blame entirely on him," she quirked an eyebrow, and her brother smiled.

Brandon was handsome, and dashing, and a rake; but being a man, the same characteristics that he had in common with her -- recklessness, a love for the outdoors and physical activity, an inquiring and curious mind bent on practical affairs rather than philosophical pursuits -- were celebrated, whereas in her, they were impediments for her pursuits. Would that she was more interested in the sciences; her conservative Father would rather a studious daughter, than one who liked to tumble with her brothers and wear pantaloons instead of hats.

"Ned would be a better woman than I, wouldn't he?" she loved her brothers, all three, but Ned was quite different from both. He was quiet; he loved poetry; and while as pragmatic after a fashion as his Stark siblings, he had a more fanciful, almost utopic, sense of wonder and faith in humanity that both Lyanna and Brandon lacked; she knew he was a romantic at heart. "Then he could marry Robert in my stead... not that I would wish Robert on anyone, but... they do love each other, don't they?"

Sometimes, in her heart of hearts, she asked herself whether Lord Baratheon's rather unexpected ardour for her was just a way of hiding his desire for her brother. The two were as alike as moon and sun, and yet, went famously well together -- it was the strangest thing. She only hoped there _was_ no such thing happening between them. Lady Ashara would be crushed if there was. Alas, Ned did not seem the type to bend that way, either. Otherwise, she would not put it past Robert to try. Famously fond of bedsport, Robert was.

"Alas, Ned has the cock and you the cunny, Lya," and for that, she had to slap his arm. He laughed at her, dancing his horse a few steps from her to avoid her aggression. "Would that it was the opposite. Imagine that, our Ned and his dour face in dresses!"

She laughed at that, too. Staying mad with Brandon, even when he was vulgar, was a hard task for her. She loved him too much for that.

"Tragic, isn't it? They'd be so happy together. Alas...”

A comfortable silence descended between them; Lyanna focused on the rhythm of Stormhawk’s hooves, the comfort of the roll of his back, the press of his ribs as he breathed. That particular feeling soothed her nerves more than anything else. She thought she’d never been truly alive until she placed her palm against his side, felt the power of his lungs beneath her fingers. Lyanna may not believe in witches and sorcery, but she thought she understood why witches had familiars; if such a thing existed, he was certainly hers.

Brandon seemed lost in his own thoughts, far from there, from the road and the steady roll of the coach and the horses. She’d been so consumed with the problem of Robert Baratheon that she never bothered to ask what he felt for his own match. It was a grievous oversight of hers; she knew Brandon was sweet on a Northern girl, a Cerwyn or some such; he often left Winterfell to visit with her. Yet she’d assumed it was easier for him; Brandon was a rake whose affections changed with the wind; it would be a matter of time until he forgot the Cerwyn girl for someone else.

The thought saddened her, somehow. Were all men fickle like her brother and Robert? She did not think so; Ned was cut from a different cloth altogether. He was constant; she knew that. Even the Prince seemed constant to his wife; and yet...

”How do you find the Lady Catelyn?” she asked, as a way to distract herself from such dangerous thoughts.

”Beautiful,” he said, though his voice seemed far away, as were his thoughts. “Demure. Modest. She is an elegant lady, and quite accomplished. She plays and sings very well, draws and paints, and her embroidery is as neat as everything she does. She is intelligent as well. A true, noble lady if there ever was one.”

”She sounds lovely...”

”She is.”

”You do not love her?”

He sighed. It was rare to see Brandon so melancholy; it tugged at her heart.

”No.”

”Why marry her, then? You are the heir; you have no lack of prospects; and Father would understand... wouldn’t he?”

Their father had married their cousin; it was well-known it was a love match, one that was fortunate for both. Besides, it was already shocking that Lord Stark would seek connections beyond the North; they usually kept to themselves and away from southern politics.

”Because, my sister,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture if there ever was one. Brandon was no dandy, but he liked to keep attuned to fashion and thus, wore his hair short as was in style. “Winter is coming. War as well, from the Iron Islands and far North. We will need the Riverlands support and supplies if it stretches too long. What better way to solidify such a thing than with a marriage? Besides...”

He darted a look to the coach rolling besides them. She didn’t need words to know what it meant. There was dissent in the North, dissatisfaction with Targaryen rule. Some even whispered about secession. While they had long since moved beyond the feudal ways, and the King no longer ruled as absolutely as in the past, Lyanna knew how much a weak or mad king could affect the balance of Westeros as a whole. King Aerys’ madness, although brief, had shown well how dangerous it could be.

While Rhaegar was not his father — yet; Aerys had not always been mad — she understood why the nobles would question his fitness for rule. Suddenly it made a lot more sense why her father pushed her so hard in Robert’s direction. The support of the Stormlands, woven through her, could be pivotal for attempts of rebellion, if it came to that. Robert had many flaws, but he was an excellent soldier and general — and related to the Targaryens, although there was no real love between them.

“You are too familiar with him,” Brandon’s voice was quiet and serious. She felt a full body shiver, and told herself it was the winter wind, not the sense of foreboding that invaded her heart.

"We never breached propriety," and yet, she remembered well that night in the music room; and how she'd thought he was going to kiss her in the ship; and while Lyanna was naïve, she was not foolish enough to not see the truth of their mutual interest. Brandon seemed to see the truth of her thoughts, his lips tugging in a half-smile she knew well. He knew her for a liar.

"He claims the same," he said. "Yet I do not believe it. I know you too well, Lya. You are wolf-blooded, same as I," and he chuckled sadly at that. Wolf-blooded they were, and yet, it did not bright them joy, not always. "Impulsive. I just... remember, sis, please. He is handsome and charming; witty and talented; a gentleman by all accords; and yet he is still the blood of the dragon; and married besides. The hearts of men can be treacherous. Do not let him dishonor you, sis. It never ends well."

"Not for women," she quipped, because it was true, and she knew it to be true. It was the way of the world, whether she liked it or not.

"Not for women," he agreed. "No matter how original or unconventional they may be."

There was a sympathetic look in his eyes that irked her; as if he knew more than he'd let on, and it hurt. It hurt ever so much.

On reflex, she kicked her heels into Storm's flanks, urging him to go. Her love reacted instantly, sprinting into the full gallop he knew his mistress needed.

At least with him, alone across the heath, there would be no judgment; only the wind, and the land, and freedom, however brief it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** the idea of marriage as a love match is quite modern (and in many places of the world, still nonexistent). During the 19th century it was still common, especially for nobles and the bourgeois, to marry for political or money reasons (often both). What we don't see as often is how divorces and separations also happened (far less than in modern days, but they did happen: George Sand/Aurore Dupin divorced her husband before shacking up with Chopin, but Marie D'Agoult never did, though she bore Franz Liszt three children and lived with him for several years). Notably, King George IV (who gives the Regency period its name) only had sex with his wife, Queen Caroline, three times (all on their wedding night) and never laid with her again (or so they said). Though they were married for 25 years, she only lived with him for one (long enough to birth Princess Charlotte), and they were apart for the rest of it, going as far as living in different countries altogether.


	14. Salut d'Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our protagonists arrive at Winterfell. Rhaegar fights the green-eyed monster.

Winterfell did not change since the rise and fall of the Winter Kings. It was a stately castle; very much so — a veritable medieval fortress, with its high walls and moats and the villages that, today, were responsible for most of the food and maintenance of the castle itself. It was smaller Harrenhal; and yet, with its dark stone walls against the pale sky, it felt even more imposing.

Even in spring, there was not much green or color to be found in the North. It was still quite beautiful; the heaths dotted with wildflowers, the occasional shine of the White Knife as it bent and turned around them. They’d crossed the occasional fox on the way, and birds he’d never seen before. It was the air, however, that had him taking deep breaths whenever they stopped to rest and change horses. The air was much clearer and cleaner in the North — sharp and cold, much like its inhabitants.

Lord Rickard Stark corresponded well to the land he oversaw. He was as imposing as his castle, a gentleman in his fifties with sharp, piercing eyes that missed nothing. His hair was already silver, and so was his well-trimmed beard and whiskers; his face lined with age, although he his back was ramrod straight and his body as trim as that of a man in his prime. He had the long face of the Starks; not handsome, not really, but striking in the way only powerful men comfortable in their position can be. The way his wild daughter was.

Alighting from the coach they’d rented at White Harbor, Rhaegar felt acutely aware of his own shortcomings: the rumpled clothes, the no doubt sweaty face and disarrayed hair; the look of a man weeks on the move, no better than any commoner. He hardly looked a Prince — much less one who would, one day, ascend to King — in his dusty travel habits, with no pomp, no guards surrounding him.

It was the way he preferred to be; yet he was aware that to most of the nobility of Westeros, it was seen as a sign of weakness. He had learned at his mother’s knee how much appearances mattered. It was just he never cared for her lessons until they became unavoidable.

The elder lord took a knee, bowing his head, as was custom, and Rhaegar deemed he rise, shaking hands with the Lord of Winterfell.

”Your Grace, I welcome you to Winterfell,” he said, a deep voice as grave as expected.

”My lord, I thank you for your gracious hospitality. I lament giving so little warning of my impending arrival, but I deemed it necessary we discuss about the North in person, as promptly as possible.”

“It is no matter, Your Grace. I took the liberty of inviting the principal lords of the North as well. Your communication implied urgent matters that would affect us all.”

”That is well done, my lord. Might as well have a full parlay.”

At that, he gestured to the Lady Ashara and Arthur, who now flanked him, a step behind, as protocol dictated.

”My lord, may I present the Lord Arthur and the Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall?”

Ashara curtsied, smiling prettily at the Lord of Winterfell, Arthur bowing as well in respect. He saw a new softness break through the Warden’s serious face, as he eyed Ashara; no doubt he already knew of his son’s interest in her. The softness almost turned into a smile as his children gathered as well, the young, boisterous Benjen almost bowling his father over as he marched right in for a hug, Brandon and Ned bowing swiftly with easy smiles, and Lyanna as well; but unlike her brothers, she greeted her father with a kiss to the cheek and a soft, “hi, Papa”. It reminded him of little Rhaenys, for some reason.

It was clear to him that stern Lord Stark loved his children. As usual, he felt a stab of envy. Even when his father was not mad — or at least, less mad — he’d never had any real affection from him; it saddened him that Aegon and Rhaenys likely thought the same of him; that their father was a distant, cold figure they knew only by name and reputation. Yet he could not force Elia to part from them — or have her live in King’s Landing, with its bad airs, her fragile constitution and their cold, loveless bed.

At least they would have one loving parent.

***

"Domeric!"

Her voice was bright and merry, in a way he'd never heard before. Tonight, she wore her hair down, as she had on the road, pinned away from her face by a silver clasp in the shape of a direwolf, a few curls dancing around her shoulders. It always surprised him, how long her hair was -- it seemed incompatible with the image she presented, which was decidedly masculine in her evening coat and black pantaloons in the same style worn by her brothers. Brandon, he saw, also greeted the newcomer warmly. But it was clear the young man -- Domeric -- had his eyes on Lyanna: there was an unmistakable fondness in his demeanor, from the quirk on his lips to the tilt of his head towards her. His hands clasped her forearms, above the wrists, in a way that spoke of intimacy without breaching propriety. Lyanna herself held his forearms in the same fashion -- her own face tilted up and alight with excitement and fondness both.

He watched as she twined her arm to his, her cheeks pink, their shoulders near brushing together, at the very edge of propriety; not as improper, however, as the dark and treacherous _thing_ shifting inside of him, something nameless he had no wish to confront. It was only then that she saw him, then, in a cluster of people, and directed her partner in their direction. He saw Arthur shoot him a look from the corner of his eye, clearly noticing all was not well; his friend knew him too well; it was unpleasant, how much Arthur knew him, sometimes.

"My lord, Your Grace," she curtsied, in spite of her attire, the happy smile still on her face. He'd not realized she had such even, straight teeth -- mostly because he'd never seen her smile quite this way before. "This is Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. His father is unwell, so he decided to attend instead. Domeric, may I present you His Grace Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince Regent of Westeros, and his ever-faithful companion, Lord Arthur Dayne of Starfall."

"My lord, Your Grace," the young man bowed, a smile gracing his lips as well, though Rhaegar had no doubt it was meant for the woman by his side, rather than the new acquaintances. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I welcome to the North, on behalf of my father, Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort."

If the young heir noticed the way the Prince Regent was staring at him, he did not show; that, or he did not care. Domeric Bolton was a strong, strappy young man, not unlike the men of the North. Of a good height and slender, although not as broad shouldered or as tall as the Stark men, or even Rhaegar himself; likely due to his young age, as well, as he seemed no older than Lyanna. Pale as the people of the North seemed to be, the boy had hair almost as pale as Rhaegar's; but his eyes were the color of ice, even lighter than Lyanna's, to an unnerving degree. In the half-light of the Great Hall, one might believe him blind.

Yet he had an easy smile, as well; as happy as the one his companion sported. In spite of the strangeness of his eyes, and the rather foreboding name of his inheritance, the young man had an open, honest look to him; the look of someone who never knew hardship or had a reason to hide his thoughts or engage in subterfuge.

The shapeless thing inside of Rhaegar sank to the pit of his stomach, hissing. _That_ feeling he was intimately familiar with. It was ridiculous, truly; he was a Targaryen, heir to a heritage thousands of years old, straight from Old Valyria, and still, the feeling of inadequacy stirred within like water disturbed by a careless wind.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord," he bowed his head in return, as was polite, and heard his own voice almost from outside his own body. He knew that, to the unfamiliar, he would sound perfectly amiable and polite; it was a look and sound he'd practiced since he was old enough to understand how to school and control his sentiments; and yet, he could see the slight tilt of Lyanna's head, like a hound picking on an odd sound. Her brows knit for a second before she blinked whatever it was that she'd caught away, brushing it aside as she turned to her friend, the smile back on her plain, lovely face, framed in ringlets of dark brown.

 _Gods, does she know me this much? Already?_ They had had so few interactions, nothing beyond pleasant conversations and encounters around the ship or on the road, and yet...

"His Grace is a skilled musician, Domeric," she said, filling the brief silence with a gaiety that he'd never truly heard from her before. "He plays the piano like no one I've ever seen!"

The nameless, dark thing inside him was happy to hear that. He _was_ good; it was one of the few things Rhaegar truly prided himself for, as it was something he did not owe to his birth or position, but that was his and his alone. His willingness to practice, to play a piece over and over until he had it memorized, to blindfold himself and _feel_ ; those were his, no one else's.

"Domeric here is quite the musical genius as well," she added. The thing was significantly less happy to hear that. "It was he who introduced me to music proper; he plays the violin and the cello magnificently."

Of course he did.

The young man blushed at the compliment, laughing self-deprecatingly. The fact his modesty did not ring false made everything even harder to cope with; it seemed young Domeric was a genuine fellow.

He could feel Arthur tense by his side, on the brink of laughing. No doubt he felt Rhaegar’s turmoil and thought it funny.

”My lady exaggerates, Your Grace,” he smiled at her with such fondness, he could not help but wonder what, exactly, they meant to each other, and whether her brothers guarded her from the Bolton heir as well as they guarded her from himself. It seemed they did not; Brandon had merely smiled at the intimate looks between his sister and Domeric. “I play passably, and compose a little, but I am no Jon Connington.”

“No one is Jon Connington, my lord. The man is a genius well beyond us all.”

”Too right!”

“Will you play for us tonight, Dom? It has been so long since I heard you play...!”

It was only a lifetime of composure that kept him from grinding his teeth. Gods, what was wrong with him? He had no claim over her; there was no reason to have their easy intimacy bother him this much.

”Oh, I have not brought any instruments with me... do you still have that old thing I gifted you? If you do, then I can use it... if it can still hold a tune,” he laughed and her face shone with such adoration it drove him to distraction.

”I did not know you played, my lady,” it made him genuinely curious. She’d appreciated his skills, true, but never mentioned having any of her own. He guessed he’d formed an image in his head of an active young woman, more boy than lady, more fond of horses and the outdoors than the arts.

”Oh, I do not; not for lack of trying; Domeric here tried his best to educate me; but I have no head for it. I appreciate it; it is a skill I envy, even as I do not possess it.”

”Have you known each other for very long, then?”

He'd directed his question at Lyanna; but it was Domeric who answered.

"Since we were born, almost; it is as if there was not a time when we did not know each other..."

"Lady Bolton was very ill when Dom here was six," she explained. "She had a fever. Lord Bolton was afraid his only child and heir would catch it, so Father fostered this one for awhile. We are of an age, so we practically grew together!"

"Well, I did leave to attend the White Harbor Conservatory --"

"I missed you terribly --"

"So did I, my lady; so did I," he kissed her hand.

"And now he rents a house in Winter Town," she finished. "To be closer to us!"

"Of course," he agreed easily, but Rhaegar knew as well as the young man that it was not for the Starks — it was for her. Domeric Bolton was in love with Lyanna Stark; and it was likely she loved him as well, judging from her boundless enthusiasm and easy affection between them.

At that point, Lord Stark joined them, with a gaggle of other men — the lords of the North. The night was dedicated to festivities and a feast, so they could relax and enjoy Lord Stark’s hospitality before they engaged in the serious conversations; a great way to get a feel of the general moods and thoughts of the northern lords. This was he was bred to do; to see a room and size it up, to please, entertain and yet, exert authority; to bring confidence and wisdom.

Still, he watched as she greeted the lords, people she’d know all her life, and took her leave from them; and he watched the way she agreed to bring his gift to him later, after supper.

”You’re fucked, my friend,” Arthur whispered against his ear. He was inclined to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** this one is more like a tangent, but for a long time (up until the late 19th century and early 20th century) women were discouraged from playing instruments such as the cello. The argument was that sitting with knees parted, straddling a musical instrument, was ~*immoral*~ and not something ~*proper ladies*~ did. Some women would play sidesaddle (much like when riding a horse), with their knees to one side rather than straddling the instrument.
> 
> I didn't really base Domeric Bolton on anyone in particular, but I'd love to think there's a bit of an Edward Elgar there, with a dash of Camille Saint-Saëns. :)


	15. Étude, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna and Ashara have a riding lesson. Domeric acts cheeky. Ashara is a bit of a bitch.

Ashara Dayne liked the North.

Being Dornish, she felt the chill acutely, right down to her bones. Still, there was something enchanting about the heaths, the rolling hills that barely dented the landscape, the wildflowers scattered upon the wild. It was very romantic; there was something straightforward and honest about the land, as much as there was something straightforward and honest about the people.

She just wished that honesty and purity of thought did not come with such bloody cold. It was fortunate she followed the Lady Lyanna’s advice and bought new dresses — and a shawl, courtesy of one Lord Eddard Stark — at White Harbor, as nothing she had would keep the chill away, what with being fit for Dorne and the south. The rather impromptu decision to go northwards had its consequences.

But Ashara did not regret it. As an independent-minded author and woman, she was possessed of a deep curiosity about the world, one that she wished to indulge as much as possible before the ties of matrimony bound her to a life of domesticity. At one and twenty, Ashara had already visited each of the Seven Kingdoms; the North completed the set.

It was only too bad she was likely to bind herself before she explored Essos as well. There was much to be seen in New Valyria, Braavos, Lys... alas. It was the fate of women, in special noble women, to find themselves in such a position.

Winterfell was a pleasant interlude, regardless. The solar earned its name, the many windows giving a pleasant warmth as they let the spring sun in while keeping the wind out. The castle was magnificent — and warm, so very warm. Eddard had told her about the hot springs piped through the walls, a system put in place centuries ago and a feat of engineering she knew her friend Elia would love to understand. Unlike Ashara, Elia was very mathematically minded; she would find the walls of Winterfell a magnificent challenge indeed.

Of course, thinking of Elia made her think also of Lyanna; and said lady, as if summoned by her woolgathering, soon crossed the threshold into the solar.

"Ready to ride, my lady?" she flashed that puppy-like smile of hers, one laced with adoration. It felt flattering to Ashara, whose claim to fame was, unfortunately, primarily her body, not her mind; and at first she even asked herself whether Lyanna was inverted, as so many _unconventional women_ seemed to be; but it soon became clear it was merely a case of hero worship, not any secondary motive. Of course, Ashara was not, at all, ready to ride, but she felt she owed the woman as much -- as she was the one to engage her in the first place, and suggest such a thing.

Being in the North, she understood far more of Lady Lyanna's behaviour. As the men convened to Lord Stark's study to argue politics and the upcoming war, as well as issues of the North, Ashara and Lyanna were left to their own, the only two noblewomen in the whole of Winterfell. The North was so vast, it was hard for its lords to come together often; and their daughters and wives even less so. Left without a mother, Ashara could see how, surrounded by hard, strong men, she would shun the impracticality of being a woman of their time for the pursuits of her brothers. It was no wonder she was starved for female attention and companionship, even if she knew not _how_ to obtain such things.

Never be it said Lady Ashara Dayne was not charitable! Besides, she genuinely liked the girl.

"Ready I am not," she said in honesty. "But I will, soon. I must change into my riding habits! Shall we meet at the stables, my lady?"

"Of course!" Again, that brilliant smile.

***

It was not that she did not know how to ride; she did, albeit not very well. Her pursuits were of the mind, not of the body. Sure, she did enjoy some of the more sensuous pleasures, as far as propriety allowed; but she'd never been outdoorsy, as her brother was. No, she found her diversion in poetry and writing, not on the saddle. Yet she was always fond of learning new things; and, having seen how the Lady Lyanna rode as if she was half horse herself, it felt only right to cultivate a rapport with the woman around her favored subject -- and improve her own skills. There was much to learn from watching how someone interacted when in their element.

"I assumed you would desire a side saddle, my lady," the younger woman said, more serious than she'd been before. Yet the friendly mien remained. To Ashara's surprise, she led only one horse -- not her own, but...

Ashara's eyes widened. _Is she mad?!_

"Do not be frightened, my lady," Lyanna laughed; it was not mocking, merely amused. "Nightsong here is intimidating, but she is truly the best teacher one could ever wish for."

The horse was not, as Ashara expected, a thoroughbred like the one Lyanna rode. No; it was _huge_ , with thick, corded shoulders and thighs, a wide back, and thick, shaggy mane. The neck was equally thick and muscular, as were the legs, solid as tree trunks. The mare was not tall, exactly, but what she lacked in height, she made up in sheer muscle and, presumably, strength. A work horse, likely built for the plough and the forestry that was so important to the North.

”Come on, my lady,” she invited. “Give her a pet. Nightsong doesn’t bite — or kick!”

No Dayne was ever a coward,so she did what she was told. The mare's skull was massive, but her muzzle was soft as any horse's, and she seemed to accept the pets with all the grace of a beast used to impatient and nervous children.

Soon enough, once she was satisfied, Lyanna bid her climb on the saddle, aiding her to do so as was proper. The apron hid the awkward positioning of her legs, and for a second Ashara wondered whether Lyanna had a point in riding astride. She’d never tried, but it sure looked more comfortable that way.

”Nightsong has a wide back, so feel free to relax, my lady,” the younger woman explained. “We will go through the basic gaits, so I can assess how well you balance. Then we’ll work on improving and refining your technique. Is that alright?”

She nodded. Truth be told, when she asked for aid, she had not expected full riding lessons — she merely thought of riding with the girl and prying into her brain. It seemed, however, that Lyanna had a very different notion, and took her education with surprising seriousness. Ashara wasn’t quite sure whether her surprise was pleasant or not, but she was willing to find out.

Turned out, you could learn quite a bit about the woman from watching her teach. It was obvious that the Lady Lyanna was in her element, and that it was only the limitations of her sex that did not see her grow deeper into the world she clearly loved above all else. Ashara herself was somewhat unconventional, for her love of literature; but fortunately, their time was enlightened enough that she was allowed to write, and publish her works, without being overly shunned for it, even if she did need a male name (Arthur Sand, as it happened) to do so. Still, her friends knew who she was; that was enough for her.

"I taught Benjen to ride,” she’d said. “He has no real affinity for it, but I do believe he is competent enough to not embarrass himself.”

And many things besides, Ashara learned, as they paused for rest after she complained about her leg going numb.

"If you wish, my lady, we can progress to a hunting horse; would you like to hunt?"

"I confess I would not; it feels so... barbaric."

Lyanna smiled at that, a sardonic smile that meant she agreed, although not entirely. Ashara knew she'd followed the hunt on Harrenhal, although that may be merely an excuse to get on the saddle again. She knew from Eddard that her brothers were not amused by her constant trips to the stables, often by herself.

"It can be; but it is a nice diversion regardless; most of the time we simply scare the poor animals more than harm them."

Thus the morning went, with them alternating conversations and riding; as luncheon approached, Lyanna demonstrated the correct posture and technique, effectively ending their lesson. Distracted as she was by the mare and woman, she did not notice the man approaching them, until his jovial voice broke into their easy chatter.

"Still embarrassing poor Nightsong, I see!"

Ashara would not necessarily have noticed Domeric Bolton enough to remember him, but last night her brother did comment on a little interesting bit of trivia -- namely, the closeness between the Bolton heir and the Lady Stark, and how... bothered Rhaegar was about it. Looking at her now, she could see the truth in her brother's assessment. Her pleasant, but plain countenance was lit up, even as she feigned annoyance at their interloper's words. A brightness the likes of it Ashara had never seen on the young woman. It made her otherwise ordinary face quite lovely indeed.

Yes, Arthur was right; there was connection there; and Rhaegar...

It still surprised her how taken he was with the girl. She was pleasant; a good company; and she was original, for sure; but she was no great beauty, or even particularly accomplished, other than her skill with horses. Rhaegar had the finest ladies of the realm at his feet, married and unmarried, Ashara was certain, yet he'd never even seemed to care overmuch for any of them. She knew he looked; he was a man, after all; and she was certain he'd had dalliances before his marriage to Elia. Yet, none of them seemed to make enough of an impression to linger like this country girl from the North did.

Puzzling, to say the least.

“Oh please,” she scoffed. “As if you’d do better!”

”You know I would,” he said, affably enough in spite of the teasing. It was only then he seemed to notice her, bowing in greeting, as was proper. “My lady. I see Lyanna has made another victim to her schemes. Never fear, I am come to rescue you from her wiles!”

Ashara had to laugh at that. The young man was just as plain as the lady, handsome in the way all noblemen were, a grace borne from good breeding and health. Yet there was an openness to him, a gentility, that reminded her of her own Ned Stark; that quiet strength of character so typical of northern men, or, perhaps, of the men educated by Rickard Stark.

”My lady was giving me a riding lesson,” Ashara said, smiling. Domeric Bolton was sweet. “She is a most strict taskmaster. If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked for them!”

”She is at that,” the fondness in his voice was unmistakable. “But I am better.”

”Are not!”

The lady in question leaped from the saddle, swift as a cat. She strode over to them, Nightsong’s reins forgotten even as she mare trailed behind her, loyal as a puppy, Lyanna scratching under her muzzle absentmindedly.

”Am too. You are merely the second best rider in the North, my lady. Admit it.”

”It was one time!”

“Enough to show my superiority,” he replied loftily, but it was meant in jest; it was obvious the subject was a point of teasing between two old, familiar friends. Lyanna pouted — actually pouted! — at him.

Gods, Rhaegar must be besides himself, watching those two.

”I did not come here to gloat, however. Your father asked me to drag you home, so you may prepare for luncheon, and allow Lady Ashara to do so as well. He also told me to tell you to be a woman for once and not embarrass him in front of the Prince Regent, but we know that is a lost cause...”

She laughed; Lyanna and being a regular lady was a lost cause indeed, Ashara knew. But they returned to the castle regardless, leaving the mare to a stableboy and one Ashara Dayne with much to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohboy, was it hard to write Ashara, yet, I wanted to add her pov :-/ I know she sounds like a bit of a bitch here, but that wasn't really my intention. I think she's just feeling the situation and being detached from it, she can come off as cold or dismissing. Oh well, we'll see how she develops!
> 
>  **Unsolicited historical facts:** initially I intended to base Ashara on Mary Shelley but frankly, Mary's life fits Lyanna more than Ashara (from running away with a married man as a teenager to her lover’s wife dying tragically -- suicide -- miscarriages, losing her children and betrayals galore). So maybe she's a happier Mary Shelley? Who knows. The concept of women writing under male aliases isn't unique of course: Aurore Dupin aka George Sand is an example of it, and if I'm not mistaken the Brontë sisters and even Jane Austen did as well, before their true names and identities came out.


	16. Tristesse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna and Domeric have a conversation.

The northern wilderness always made her feel complete.

She was a wolf in her element, a wild creature in the heath, a beast in the woods. The bubbling of a creek, the mystery of a bog, the singing of the skylark; it all felt like home to her, as much part of her soul and heart as of the land around her. The crisp cold in the air, so unlike the urban heat of the south, loosened the muscles in her shoulders and neck. Here, she was at peace; here, she was home, with the afternoon sun warming her skin, as the world and its follies, foibles and intrigues fell away.

"I missed it here," Domeric said, and she knew he felt just as she did. Even as south as White Harbor felt distant, too different, too _unlike_ their home. And Winterfell _was_ home, even to him; he'd spent much of his life fostered with the Starks, even after his mother's death from the fever. White Harbor was not unlike King's Landing or the Saltpans, bustling with activity and commerce, a mass of men and women pushed together in close quarters, thick with the smells of human and industry alike. It was a far cry from the quiet, idyllic respite of Winterfell -- a privilege afforded to few, she knew well, but which she held in her heart as the precious thing it was. "Being here, it's like a weight lifted from my shoulders. I missed that."

"I did too," she agreed, just as quiet. After luncheon, with the lords entertained by political and social conversation and card games, she'd excused herself for a walk, as she rarely spent any time cooped indoors and missed her homeland besides. Domeric, her ever-faithful companion, offered to join her, and thus the hours found them on foot, for once, enjoying nature and everything it had to offer -- something they did often as children and saw no reason to stop once they reached their majority. Perhaps people in the south would believe her father too neglectful of his daughter's honor; an assessment consistent with her casual disregard of the mores of her sex; and yet Lord Stark trusted his foster son's honorable intentions as much as he did his own, true-born children.

For a time, they walked in silence, simply delighting in the wind and the sun and the songbirds. Domeric hummed under breath from time to time -- a new composition, no doubt. It made her smile. She liked, loved even, to be in Domeric's company; they were great friends, since childhood, and had much in common, namely a taste for music, horses and the outdoors, although -- to her chagrin -- he surpassed her in all counts. There had always been a fierce, if amicable, competitiveness between them when it came to riding (and, truth be told, most things); it both stimulated and entertained her, and, she believed, him as well.

It was natural as breathing, for her, to steal glances at him, to be near just like this, in comfortable quiet, merely existing in the same place. Lyanna was not often quiet; but there was something in Domeric that calmed her down, made her reflect; much as, she thought, she could spur him on and make him go further. They matched; it was simple as that.

"My father wants me to marry the Flint girl," he said, with no preamble.

And, simple as that, something inside her, something fragile and hopeful and beautiful, something she'd cherished for years, broke apart, like a priceless porcelain vase from Yi Ti, knocked carelessly from its perch by unfeeling hands.

"Oh."

"I am inclined to agree," he said, and Lyanna hated the tears wetting her eyes, tears she refused to let fall, grinding her teeth so hard to control herself she could feel her jaw hurt.

"I did not know you loved her," her voice sounded pathetic even to her ears, but, if he noticed, he did not show. His own eyes were cast forward, lost in the distance, as if deep in thought.

"I do not," was his casual answer, shrugging carelessly.

 _Then why? Why her?_ her mind screamed, but she kept her silence. It was humiliating enough to feel _this_ , the shards piercing through her insides like a physical thing.

Yet his hand sought hers, as discreet as ever, and though she wished to pull back, to reconvene and curl into herself, as was her wont, her fingers threaded with his of their own volition, as they'd done for many, many years; his thumb brushing the back of her hand in a manner that did not soothe her in the least. Not now.

"Father believed we would marry," he explained, and his voice felt like salt. "I was going to ask him. I was ready to. Lord Stark, though, he was quite happy to announce your engagement to Robert Baratheon," he sighed, his free hand brushing face. "I was too late. He outranks me in every way, Lya. Wealth, prestige, nobility, connections..."

_Not all. Not all._

"We could always elope," she said, in jest but also in truth. She would have; had he professed his desire to marry her, she would have.

"Lord Stark would have my head if we did," he laughed, humorlessly, and she did, too, though she felt like anything but. Lord Stark would have, that was true. Foster son or not, he would not have taken kindly to an elopement.

Not that Domeric ever would. He loved her, she knew that, as well as she knew her own feelings; he'd never said as much, but he'd never needed to. Yet she also knew he would never go against her father -- the moment Lord Stark said _no_ , he would accept it without question or fight. He would defend her against gods and men -- but not against her own father, whom he cherished as much, if not more, than his own. It was that slavish devotion that endeared him to Lord Stark, that made him trust Domeric to be around his daughter without need for a chaperone.

And Father...

Father would never consider him a suitable candidate for her hand. The Bolton name was old, but it'd fallen into obscurity for centuries before Roose gained enough clout as a tradesman to buy his family's title back. They had wealth to their name, and power, and a seat at the Parliament; but it was nothing compared to Robert's ancestral seat, a mere three steps away from the throne. If Robert did not exist, then perhaps Domeric would be good enough -- someone to foist his unruly, unconventional daughter on. Yet Robert _did_ exist and, for whatever reason, seemed just as interested in marrying her, despite her efforts in rebuffing him. Her friend was right; Lord Robert Baratheon outranked him in every aspect, except the one that mattered to her: her happiness.

But whoever cared for a maiden's heart?

"I wish you all wedded bliss, Dom," she said, though it pained her to do so. "Alys Flint is a good girl. She will be a good wife to you. You deserve that, a happy life and a happy family..."

"Lya..."

His hands sought her face, brushing in the hollow beneath her eyes, brushing the traitorous tears that slipped past. Yet she reared back, as Stormhawk would have; shying away from his touch and the sadness in his pale, icy eyes.

"Let us go back, Domeric. It grows late. Father will worry."

He nodded, staring straight ahead as they walked back to the warm walls of Winterfell.

***

Years later, Lyanna Stark would say that was the moment her life turned on itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've no idea where this came from, but, it did, sooooo there's that. Might be a time skip for the next chapter -- not sure what's happening yet. :)
> 
>  **Unsolicited historical facts:** it was not uncommon for traders, industrialists, bankers, etc., a.k.a. the rich bourgeois, to buy noble titles. This was because, while they had economic power, they didn't necessarily have social clout and lots of nobles frowned upon families that ascended socially in trade, rather than by aristocratic birth.


	17. Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Elia reflect on friendship and science.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, this one was hard to write. I confess I was also a little discouraged by things I’ve seen happen in this very site lately. Still, the show must go on, so I hope y’all like the update :) idk why I made Arthur asexual, but he is now, so there.

**ONE YEAR LATER**

_A year. It's been a full year._ Yet his friend still acted like a green boy whenever a letter from _her_ reached his hands. Whenever it happened, his melancholy friend _smiled_. Actually smiled. It was baffling and sweet, in a way, but Arthur's practical mind could not help but think it was troublesome in a far greater way. Still, he didn't have the heart to say anything about it; instead, he listened to his friend's diatribes about the young woman's shenanigans in the North, of which there was a surprising amount. Then again, from what little he'd seen of the woman, it was also predictable. Lyanna Stark didn't seem the type to sit quietly and read, or write.

In the end, Arthur Dayne was equal parts happy and worried about his friend. It was not something he could directly relate to; having never loved a woman (or a man, for that matter), he had no experience in such matters; and yet, there was no longing for it either. Arthur had never felt the stirrings typical of his sex -- and, if his sister was to be believed, typical of the fairer sex, as well. His colleagues called him septon, in jest and in thinly-veiled criticism; and while Arthur had no head nor interest for religion, it was not, in reality, far from the truth. His sister would say it was a waste; Arthur was not blind to the fact he was considered handsome by many a maiden; and even by some of the lads; and yet, he was not tempted to engage with them, or take part in any sort of bedsport. Arthur's life, passion and lover was the military; it was fortunate he was a second son and thus, free to do as he pleased.

Truth be told, he was glad he was born the way he was. It was far better than being like Jon, unable to fulfill his true passions, or like Rhaegar — pining after the impossible woman he desired.

Because he desired her. That was clear to everyone, even Elia, except perhaps to Rhaegar himself, though Arthur doubted his friend was so blind as to ignore the truth in his heart. Yet Rhaegar had a habit of denial, something he kept since his tenderest youth.

”Sickening, isn’t it?”

Arthur laughed. He’d missed Elia’s acid wit.

”I cannot deny it...”

”Who would have thought a young maid would turn his head so?”

Indeed.

It was another thing he did not fully understand, how... calm she was about the whole thing. Arthur had no desire to marry, but he understood loyalty and constancy; he understood vows, perhaps far more than others. That Elia would accept her husband’s infatuation with someone else was strange to him.

On the other hand, they never knew each other before they were wedded; perhaps there was more to marriages than Arthur, consummate bachelor that he was, would ever understand.

”Nothing will come of it, anyway,” he said, though he had an uncomfortable feeling that was not true. There was more to it. He knew there was, although he could not put his finger on it.

Elia nodded in agreement, though there was a sort of sardonic skepticism in her eye.

Arthur rather liked Elia Martell. She was a beautiful woman, though that meant little to him. More important than that, she was wildly intelligent — far more than himself or Rhaegar — a brilliant mind if there ever was one. He knew of her correspondence with Baelor Hightower, the wonderful things they created — inventions that, to him, were near magic.

Sometimes, Arthur would just sit and watch her calculate and sketch into her notebooks. It was like watching Jon Connington play; watching a master at her craft.

”Do you still wish to fly, Your Grace?”

”Of course,” she smiled at him, soft and far away. That smile always gave him a tug, burrowing inside his chest. Not desire, but a wish to protect, to be near her against the ills of the world. To be her shield.

Elia had that about her. She was not fragile; yet she inspired such a feeling in others. It was the strangest thing.

“Such a marvel it would be,” he coughed, realizing how long his silence had been. Her indulgent smile showed she knew why. “To fly! It would give us a marked advantage in this blasted war!”

”At least the North settled,” she shrugged. “But yes, it would; though I loathe to see such a marvel used in such a manner; alas, it is unlikely to happen in our lifetimes.”

”I have full faith if anyone could, it would be you, Your Grace.”

”You are very kind, my lord.”

Arthur and Rhaegar were friends since their youth, when Arthur came into service. They were of an age; both misfits in an order that attracted a certain type of people. Rhaegar because he had no head for military affairs; and Arthur because he was who he was.

Friendship became brotherhood soon after, and when his friend ascended to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, it was only natural.

Still, he truly hoped the future would not force him to choose between his friend and what was right; between Rhaegar and Elia. Arthur, for all his faithfulness, was not sure who he would side with.

He had a nagging suspicion it would not be Rhaegar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** as a child, Ada Lovelace had a bout of measles that left her incapacitated. In her confinement and loneliness, she wrote a full book about flying and how she’d make wings, discussing materials, aerodynamics and more. None of the ideas were practical, but it showed her creative technical mind, which later would make her the mother of computer science.
> 
> The line about “seeing her invention turned to war” refers to Santos Dumont, a Brazilian inventor who was credited with inventing the airplane for awhile, before the Wright brothers own invention made the rounds. Allegedly, Santos Dumont lamented seeing his invention turned to war, as he lived long enough to see the first military airplanes.


	18. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna cosplays as a lady. Rhaegar questions his sexuality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes me strange places. I never really thought I'd end up researching dwarfism in the 19th century (just to see how Tyrion would be treated, and just to scrap it anyway... for now), but here we are.

There was something of surreal in a wedding — something almost insulting in festivities at a time when the realm was at war. Yet it was a war fought on foreign shores, beyond the sea; and his people lived still in peace. For now.

Of course, the people across the sea were also his people... though that was the whole point of the war in the first place.

It was a mess. A giant, unsolved mess. One he counted heavily on Tywin Lannister's aid to detangle -- and he was thankful the man was not as resentful about Aerys's past slights as to abandon Rhaegar to fend for himself. He would be the first to admit he was _not_ qualified to run a kingdom; it was a blessing of the Seven he had the likes of Lannister by his side.

Still, a wedding there was, and being as it involved two of the highest nobility in the land, Rhaegar's presence was inevitable. He'd had a year of respite, at least; longer if you counted Harrenhal and the trip to the North; and yet, needs must. The Targaryen image in the north was already damaged enough; being present at the Stark heir's wedding was one of the easiest tasks he'd to perform in order to prevent a possible ( _another_ ) civil war.

Sometimes, in his heart of hearts, Rhaegar wondered whether it was worth it. He'd heard about revolutions in Braavos, and how they'd changed their way of life entirely -- the same reforms New Valyria now sought. Nobility, it seemed, was reaching its end, and Rhaegar wondered whether he should keep fighting for something that felt increasingly archaic. Yet, at the same time; he could not rob Rhaenys of her future, her heritage. She had a right to the throne, a right fought over by his ancestors, in fire and blood; if he was weak, what he could do was work so that she would not be.

The amassed lords made for a pretty procession, like brightly colored birds, flitting about in their finery. Rhaegar himself had come attired as became his rank; a lot finer than he'd have otherwise. On his arm, Elia shone as the midday sun in her house colors, as was her wont, bright and exotic as few other women could claim. He was surprised she'd chosen to come with; although he had an idea why.

He would not have recognized her, were she not on Robert Baratheon's arm. Dark hair loose, unlike her habitual braid; the gown in a soft, pewter gray, with a layer of sheer gauze, embroidered with a flower motif, which did nothing to enhance her small chest and general lack of curves; a hairnet of pearls. As usual, she wore no cosmetics, but the difference in attire was so drastic he could scarcely recognize the woman he'd met in Harrenhal. But what shocked him more, more than the feminine figure she presented ever so casually, was the look in her eyes. The seriousness; the curt smile on her lips; the blank façade he'd seen once, and only once, over a year ago during the hunt.

It was the look of a noblewoman. A courtier.

If Robert noticed, he showed no reaction, as he led her around the room proud as a peacock. Rhaegar did not particularly believe Robert's declarations of love towards young Lady Stark, but there was no doubt the man approved of his bethroted and, moreover, enjoyed having her on his arm.

His wife's presence grounded him; and he knew she could feel the tension in his body as he watched Robert and Lyanna greet the upper echelons of Westerosi nobility, the woman flashing soft smiles here and there, completely devoid of the character he'd thought he knew so well by now.

"She is pretty," Elia said, besides him.

"Indeed," he answered. She was; the gown surely enhanced her rather ordinary charms. It softened the hard lines of her athletic body; and yet gave her a sort of cold, harsh distance. She was so petite beside Robert and yet, she looked nothing like it. Less like a human, closer to a statue.

He hated it.

Not that he had any say in it. He had no claim on her, after all.

For a moment, he asked himself whether he truly _was_ inverted, the way Jon claimed he was — whether his attraction to her was contingent on the implied masculinity of her demeanor. It made a frightening amount of sense; this polished creature was not the woman he’d desired, quite against his will; and yet, he recalled their encounters on the ship, on their way to the North.

He’d never had an issue lying with Elia — though neither of them were particularly enthusiastic about their duty, and agreed to stop after Aegon was born, it was not unpleasant or difficult for either party to do so.

No, he did not think he was inverted; at least not completely, as he certainly had... affections, for Jon, affections rooted in hero worship and profound admiration; and yet, it made him wonder.

It was inevitable that they would come greet the royal couple, and it took quite a bit of labor to not show his displeasure at his cousin’s cocksure grin.

”Cousin!” Lord Baratheon exclaimed, bowing exuberantly. “Princess Elia, beautiful as ever.”

His wife bowed her head, gracious as ever, stretching her hand for Robert to kiss, which she did. Lyanna, for her part, offered the usual curtsy, much more natural in a gown, her face the same mask of bland affability she’d worn all night.

”Lady Stark, I must congratulate your family on Lord Brandon’s wedding. It was truly a beautiful affair.”

”Thank you, Your Grace; although that is to Lord Tully’s honor and not ours; he was generous to make it such a grand affair in such difficult times.”

”Indeed; in any case, it is not often for we see a wedding among such high nobility.”

”Quite right, Princess; quite right.”

”We will see another soon enough!” That was Robert, his charming smile turned this time to Rhaegar’s own wife. The audacity rankled; though, if he was honest, not as much as the quiet indifference in Lyanna’s eyes.

Worse yet was the soft, rosy blush upon her cheeks. There was a general air of acceptance to her. Of surrender — and yet, there was something else, too. A distance. A cold wall between her eyes and her innermost world.

They’d corresponded for a year. A full year. He hadn’t seen her in moons, just for her to be someone else altogether when they finally met. Though, even in the days of his northern stay, they had little beyond the usual courtesies; she'd been cold and distant even then, he realized, as if a pall befell the animated young woman he'd seen arrive to Winterfell. Of course, he knew why she was distant at first; her best mate and companion was to be wed; and yet, he'd not realized how deeply it would affect her.

It seemed now she'd cherished Lord Domeric far more than he thought.

It did not explain why she allowed Baratheon to parade her around so easily. He, and most of Westeros, knew she loathed her intended.

”Congratulations, cousin,” he managed to grind out; his silence grew pointed. It would be impossibly rude to not say anything.

”Lady Stark, will you take a walk with me?” Elia’s abrupt invitation made him tense, and Lyanna as well. Yet the woman on Baratheon’s arm was a lady, and she merely bowed her head graciously, the picture of demure submissiveness.

”Of course, Your Grace,” she said.

He watched them as their arms linked together, and found Robert watching as well.

”Soon she will be mine,” his cousin muttered, seemingly to himself.

”Indeed.”

Indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** “inversion” is what 19th century folk called homosexuality. While it was well-known some people had same-sex attractions, it was thought of as a medical condition and a crime against nature. The idea that it is not _unnatural_ has been around since the 18th century (often suppressed) and the 19th century found works arguing it is not only natural but common. Namely, Havelock Ellis in his work _Sexual Inversion_ supported the idea that homosexuality was natural and challenged stereotypes associated with it.
> 
> In any case, up until 1835 sodomy was punishable by death in England (and several other countries; some still have such laws). It didn’t stop people such as Lord Byron and Aurore Dupin herself from having gay affairs. Homosexuality was illegal well into the 20th century, still.
> 
> Humorously, Queen Victoria didn’t believe that lesbians existed, because she didn’t believe women had sex drives at all.


	19. Valse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia and Lyanna have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lowered the rating from mature to teen and up because... reasons. It'll be clear in the next chapters. :)

_Well,_ thought Lyanna, _it took you long enough._

“My husband is quite taken with you,” the Princess of Westeros said. Lyanna was simultaneously bemused and refreshed by the bluntness. She would rather deal with directness than with the games so often played in the Royal Court — games Lyanna had no head or interest for.

”He is,” she agreed easily. It would be insulting to the Princess’ considerable intelligence to deny the obvious. She knew the purpose behind their walk, and expected an interrogation -- it was only right, as this was Rhaegar Targaryen's wife, and she, well, a maiden who corresponded quite frequently with her husband.

Most talk of Elia Martell focused on her fragile health and reclusiveness; as well as rumors about her character which stemmed from her Dornish origins. As it often happened with women, it was not a full representation of who she truly was — if accurate at all. It left out most of what Lyanna would consider relevant about another person.

The impression given by the talk of society ladies and gentlemen was immediately disproved by seeing the woman in person.

If Elia Martell had poor health, it did not show in her countenance. She was a tall woman, with a straight back and elegant bearing; she had a full, pleasant figure, with a generous bosom and slim arms — as well as full head of midnight black hair, full lips and an aristocratic face. She was not as beautiful as Cersei or even Ashara; but she had that exotic, foreign allure typical of the Dornish; Elia Martell was not a lady, or even a princess, but a Queen, and it showed. The orange and gold of her gown would be too much in anyone else, and positively ridiculous in someone like Lyanna, but only accented the olive skin of the Dornish Princess.

More than her physical appearance, however pleasant, it was her eyes that drew you in. Elia had dark eyes, rimmed with full eyelashes: they gleamed with rare intelligence.

“And you are quite taken with him as well,” it was question as much as it was an affirmation. Perhaps a year ago, Lyanna would be intimidated by such a woman; she’d been timid around Ashara. Even sweet, maidenly Catelyn Tully left her uncomfortable.

”Yes; I am.”

She could see the curl on the Princess’ lip; she appreciated the honesty at least.

"At least you are honest; most women would have denied it."

"Yes; most women would; but I am often told I am not like most women; although that is rarely meant as a positive thing."

"So I am told; the tales of the northern lady who dresses like a man, and is the best rider in the North, have reached as far as Dorne. Yet being in your presence, I find someone quite different from what he described to me."

Of course, she would have; she was no longer the girl he'd met in Harrenhal, awkward as a young fawn, stretching her legs beyond the quaint boredom of the North. She had changed quite a bit, and he'd been surprised -- she felt it, when Robert saw fit to take them to say their hellos to the royal couple _._ That she'd consented to be led by Robert like a dog in a leash was enough to show exactly how much she'd changed.

"I am no longer that woman, Your Grace."

”That is fair; we are not statues, but grow and change as time passes, as events change our perception of reality and of ourselves. Things we enjoyed no longer amuse us; people we loved no longer interest us; and what we expected turns out to be foolish dreams and little else.”

 _Yet I still love him._ Thinking of Domeric hurt. He'd already wed his Flint wife and Lyanna, as daughter of the Warden of the North, had attended. It was not a pleasant experience, and she thought the wound to her pride and her heart would hurt for many years to come. Her correspondence with Rhaegar Targaryen helped; but it was far from enough.

She wondered what events and dreams had shaped the woman besides her. What she’d expected of life and did not come to be, and what had. So often we were willing to ignore the hurts of others, yet Lyanna could feel it, a hurt underpinning Princess Elia’s words. Mayhaps she had loved and dreamed as Lyanna had, and lost; but she was not bold enough to ask.

”My husband attracts many a maiden,” said the Princess. “It is expected; he can be charming when he wishes to; and he is a Targaryen.”

Lyanna was not particularly intelligent, but she was also not a complete imbecile. There was a clear implication in Elia’s tone and body language, and she could not help but smile humorlessly at it. Of course. It was a logical conclusion, was it not?

While she was not known for her even temper, it would not do to lose it at Elia Martell. Instead, she took deep, even breaths before answering the underlying question in the Princess’ casual comment.

”Your Grace,” she said. “Princess. Please, forgive me the bluntness. I believe that, as women, we should be clear with each other.”

She waited for Elia’s acquiescing nod.

”I have a deep affection for your husband; that is the truth. To deny it would be an insult to Your Grace’s intelligence and my own feelings on the matter. My sentiments are true; although, not being him, I cannot know whether his are true or not, or whether they even exist at all.”

She could tell the Princess was not convinced. Just as well — Lyanna would not have been, either. She could feel it in the space between them, like electricity running the span of her spine. She knew most of the maidens (and no doubt many matrons as well) would desire him not only for his good looks and charm, but moreover because he was a Targaryen. He was the Crown Prince; she knew well that men often had mistresses, and men of power more so than others -- one need only look at the sad fate of Tytos Lannister, or Aerys Targaryen's own history, to see the truth of it. Whether it was material wealth, power, and even security, in exchange for companionship and flesh, it was all part of the transaction between men and women in their world. She did not blame those women. Being one herself, she knew all too well the tight rope most walked -- especially those not fortunate to have been born in high nobility as she and Elia had.

As all young women, Lyanna knew now precarious her reputation and virtue was in the eyes of society. It was grossly unfair; Robert could sire as many natural children as he desired, and even her Brandon could impregnate a woman not his wife with little to no impact on him, while all she had to do was share a few conversations and glances and already be cast as a threat. Still, it was what it was, and she knew society only waited to see her slip once, to cast her down into the abyss of shame and whoredom -- whether she'd even done anything or not.

Part of her asked whether she _should_. Whether it would be so terrible to prove them right.

She thought of Lysa Tully, who now resided in an asylum to, as the official story went, recuperate from a bout of hysteria. In truth, the young woman, who was even younger than Lyanna herself, had got herself pregnant by some ruffian and, upon losing the child, apparently suffered a severe mental breakdown in her grief. Brandon had told her that, when she asked where Catelyn Tully's sister was -- her heart broke to hear the truth, apparently confided to him by his newly-wed wife.

”Had I any designs on your husband’s position and status, Your Grace, I had plenty of opportunity to realize them. I did not; I have no interest in political machinations, and no desire for power, fame or material wealth, of which I am grateful to have plenty.”

"And what, pray tell, do you wish for, Lady Stark?"

There seemed to be genuine curiosity there -- Lyanna was not foolish to believe the woman's legitimate fears assuaged by her frankness, but nonetheless, she felt the sincerity of the question.

"I wish to be left alone; I wish to ride my horses and perhaps breed and train a few of my own. Perhaps travel and know the world, unencumbered by a life I do not feel I was made for. Yet rest assured, Your Grace, that I know my place; my wishes matter but little. I will marry Lord Baratheon, as I am told, breed his children, as I am told, and maybe when I am old enough and bred enough to lose his interest, he will allow me to live my life as I see fit."

If the Princess was surprised or bothered by her outburst, she did not show it, merely humming under her breath, seemingly in thought. She did not expect sympathy -- certainly not. Still, it was the truth, as she'd offered nothing else.

Instead, the older woman simply sighed.

"I guess we should go back to my husband and your betrothed; Rhaegar seems at his wit's end. I thank your for your honesty, my lady; it was very enlightening."

Lyanna herself only smiled graciously, bowing her head as the demure woman she was supposed to be, and let herself be led back to her future master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Unsolicited historical facts:** Queen Caroline wed King George IV back when he was still a Crown Prince. They were complete strangers to each other, and neither was particularly enthusiastic about the match (George IV married her as a way to keep receiving his allowance: he was a big spender and fond of gambling, drinking and women, much like our Bobby B. Also like Bobby B, he may have sired as many as 16 bastard children on different women). Reportedly, George and Caroline had an immediate dislike for each other and only had sex three times, on their wedding night, enough to conceive Princess Charlotte. They lived a year together and remained separated in all but name for the rest of their 25 year marriage (which ended with Queen Caroline's death).
> 
> While George IV had several mistresses (and even a prior marriage to a commoner, which was deemed null and void because it didn't have the King's permission to happen) and went as far as to place one of them as First Lady of the Bedchamber to his own wife (meaning she was the woman closest to the Queen), nobody really cared. This didn't stop an actual investigation on Queen Caroline's virtue -- mainly to see whether she, who, remember, lived apart from him, had taken any lovers or had illegitimate children, as she had a habit of picking up and raising common orphans in her household. The investigation found nothing damning of her, but, still. Just throwing this out there.


	20. Liebestraum

"Your wife positively hates me," she said. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her hands resting candidly on his chest. Her skin felt cool against his, as if she'd been outside -- which was likely the case, come to think of it.

He let out a sigh, his head resting against the flat of her stomach, breathing in her scent. Lyanna had an unique scent to her: something like horse, and snow, and, well, human. It was a far cry from the perfumed ladies from the south that so often surrounded him, and, much like everything else about her, it drew him in in a way he could not quite explain or understand. An indefinable tension fell away from his shoulders; he wondered whether this was a dream. Perhaps it was; only in a dream she would be so familiar to him, so close, so...

_Loving._

He'd been playing, of course. It was the only thing he had to relax and liberate his thoughts, and of course, every gentleman's palace must have a music room -- the Tullys were no exception, and he was pleasantly surprised to find a grand piano in the center of it. As usual, it was far away enough for the sound to disperse before others could wake because of it, but unlike the one in Harrenhal, this was airy and beautifully made; he suspected it had more to do with Hoster Tully's ego than with anything quite like musical interest on the part of his daughters.

Still, he appreciated the room, with its wide, high windows, through which the softest moonlight filtered; and the wind from the river, which made the curtains flutter, as if dancing to the tune of the music.

"Likely because we keep meeting this way," he quipped, and felt her laugh, against the back of his skull, though no sound left her lips. "I don't think she hates you, however."

"She does. I've felt it, under her skin. It's hard to hide such feelings." Her fingers played with the edges of his shirt. Lyanna had small, neat hands, with short, slightly dirty nails. He supposed some dirt never truly left. "She is not wrong to, either. I think she fears I will steal her husband from her. I would hate me, too."

He laughed at that thought. Rhaegar rather doubted his wife feared him leaving her; if anything, the possible consequences of such a thing on her were reason enough to worry -- something he understood. His mother had the same fears.

"Do you?" he looked up at her, tilting his head against her stomach, to see a quirk to her lips. "Plan to steal her husband?"

"No," she said, and shrugged, but he could see the playfulness in her eyes. One of her hands left his chest to card through his hair; he almost purred at the sensation. _A dream. Must be._ "Mostly because I do not believe her husband to be a thing to be stolen. I was told men think and have feelings and morals of their own, poor though those may be."

For some reason, people avoided touching him; perhaps due to his position in the world, perhaps some other reason, he could not say. But even his lovers, few though they were, generally avoided this sort of casual caresses. They enjoyed when _he_ did it -- and he did, often and gladly -- but scarcely reciprocated, which was only too bad, as he loved it; his skin was so sensitive. It figured Lyanna would see what others didn't, what others never thought to do. Such a simple touch, and yet, he felt a full-body shiver run through him. Lyanna's hands were calloused, he could feel, from reins, from labor, from living.

_A dream. Only a dream._

But oh, what a sweet dream it was.

And because it was a dream, just a dream, he let his eyes drift shut for a moment, and let himself _feel_.

"You know I --"

The words slipped almost of their own volition, hushed in the dark of the night.

"Yes; and I, you."

He could have wept from the joy of it.

How long they spent like that, he could not quite know. It could have been forever, it could have been a few moments; but at some point she'd slid to his side, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, sharing the bench with him, and somehow that was more intimate than most of his experiences with the fairer sex. She wore nothing but a nightshirt, he realized, and a locket about her neck, a locket he'd never seen her wear before; and because it was a dream, he was not shocked or scandalized by it -- not that he would have been, in any case. Her hair was unbound, falling in waves around her shoulders, and he'd never seen a lovelier sight in his life.

Because it was a dream, his fingers laced with hers; and he did what he'd wished to do so many months ago, in a ship headed towards Winterfell. He kissed her.

"Play something for me, Rhaegar," she asked against his mouth, breathless, her gray eyes shining, staring straight into his; and because none of it was real, but just a dream, he kissed her again, and again, until they were laughing soundlessly against each other's lips, and turned back to the piano, her ever-obedient servant.

***

The next morning, Rhaegar Targaryen woke to his cold bed, from a particularly good night of sleep; just to find a strange locket he'd only seen in a dream, placed upon his pillow, right next to his face.

***

The music (and yes, the fact this YouTube channel is called TheWickedNorth is just a happy coincidence):

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No historical notes on this one. Just the fact this scene basically wrote itself.


	21. Wrong Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna takes control of her own life. The Author pulls a fast one on her readers.

The morning after the wedding of Lord Brandon Stark to Lady Catelyn Tully, a chambermaid reported the groom's sister, Lady Lyanna Stark, was missing from her chambers.

At first there was not much of a commotion; Lady Lyanna often rose early and went riding on her own, a habit she kept since childhood. However as the hours went by, the people at Riverrun realized there was something strange about her absence. A closer investigation turned out two important clues: one, some of her clothes were missing, as well as all the jewelry and coin she'd taken with her. Second, a long, dark braid was found on her boudoir -- clearly the lady's own hair, which was defining characteristic of hers. A search in the stables showed both her prized stallion, Stormhawk, who she never traveled without, and his tack and saddlebags, to be missing as well.

These discoveries were enough to raise the alarm and Lord Eddard Stark, who was present at the wedding, immediately formed a search party, with the aid of the Prince Regent himself, who, some said, seemed as distraught as the maiden's own family. Lord Brandon had already departed on his honeymoon, taking a steamboat down the Trident to the Saltpans, from where they departed to Dorne. As such, he missed the entire chain of events; just as well, as he was too taken with his own wife and the new life ahead.

In spite of the considerable efforts to find her, the young woman was nowhere to be found; it seemed like she faded into thin air, or crossed straight into some other, undefined realm, where mortal hands could not reach. Some of the most fanciful said she drowned herself in the Trident, consumed with love for some unspecified suitor. Who this unknown personage was, was a matter of speculation; some claimed him to be either the Regent Prince, or a northern lordling who married another; some even claimed she was in love with her older brother, Brandon, and heartbroken to see him wed, a rumor nobody really took seriously. Others said her suitor was not a man, but a woman (also unknown), who rejected her unnatural advances.

Others still said the young woman was fleeing the Princess Elia, who'd caught her with Prince Rhaegar and chased her out; an absurd notion, as the two were seen conversing amicably just the day prior. Some claimed that, witnessing Lord Robert Baratheon engaging with another woman, the Lady Lyanna had fled in disgust.

Nobody believed her to have been abducted, other than perhaps Lord Baratheon; Lady Stark was notoriously fierce and wild, and, her brother said, skilled with dagger and pistol. There were also no signs of violence in her bedchambers, and the fact her horse and her things were missing made it clear she'd left on her own volition.

In truth, nobody knew what exactly what happened at all: the girl was gone, and that was that. At first her family believed her to be traveling North, back to Winterfell, but as the months went by without a single word from her, as Lord Stark's men failed to find her, as even the kingdom's own network of spies failed to locate her, well, the hopes of finding the missing Lady Stark went dimmer and dimmer. With a war against New Valyria raging across the Sunset Sea, there was no room to find a missing girl who did not wish to be found, no matter how noble.

Life, as it does, went on.

Lady Lyanna's betrothed, Lord Robert Baratheon, waited a full year before deeming it acceptable to consider their agreement null and void, and proceeded to court and marry the beautiful Lady Cersei Lannister. Not long after, Lord Eddard Stark wed his own sweetheart, Lady Ashara Dayne, after a long courtship filled with poetry and spirited conversation. Lord Brandon assumed more and more of his father's position, and seemed satisfied with his wife, Lady Catelyn Tully-Stark, as the woman quickly announced her first pregnancy soon after their return from Dorne. A little boy, named Rickon Stark, was born soon after, with his mother's red hair and his father's wild demeanor.

It would be a full five years before the Lady Lyanna Stark reappeared in Westeros.

But that, as they say, is another story.

**END OF PART I.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we reached the end of part one! Oh boy, three chapters in a day, THE MADNESS. I was legit going to wait until tomorrow to post this, but I'm way too excited and I'll have to do a procedure on my shoulder tomorrow which might suck, so, yeah.
> 
> Yes, there will be a part two coming shortly; the story isn't over. I'm pretty sure this is not what most of you who followed this expected to happen and I didn't either, tbh. I didn't even think it was going to be a 2-part deal at all, but it felt logical to break it here, so there. In my head, I had a few choices on the path this was going to take... and in the end I chose this because it was what made the most sense to me (but don't forget, it's not over yet...).
> 
> As always, I hope y'all enjoyed it, and feel free to comment, kudo, ask questions, concrit, anything in the comments :)
> 
> I'll see you on Part II, if you wish to continue reading.
> 
> xoxo,  
> Dre.


End file.
